Some poems stick with you all of your life. At the same time, so does extreme trauma and malaria. One poem/trauma that comes to mind is “Ars Poetica” by well-known walrus molester Archibald MacLeish.
The future is inevitable. Don’t believe me? Wait five seconds.
Welcome to the future! How different things were five seconds ago! What a wild trip, huh? And what has changed over the last few seconds? Not very much.
Except we are now over five seconds closer to the development of Giant Death Robots!
The 19th century was great to England. Their empire spanned the globe! Once a puny island nation, they expanded into a global player, holding continents in their limp, clammy, fish-like grip. How did they do this?
What is it that encourages workers more: fear or love? Easy enough question to answer while you stalk down the cubicle farm waiting to ambush the unsuspecting.
It’s fear, damn you! Fear!
I used to disdain poetry. I wondered, “is there really anything worse?” And I disdained it for what I felt was a very compelling reason: I used to write poetry.
In fact, poetry used to consume me. I was a voracious reader of poetry, and therefore a voracious writer of it. It was an inglorious habit. When you tell people you’re a poet, they imagine the worst of you.