Tribute to the poetry of tradition.
I’m an art student.
I’m blowin’ the lid off poetry.
I can’t get poetry right to save my life.
If you study poetry you’ll get it.
It’s just about our choice words,
painting things right.
I dare my pen.
Let’s follow some tradition,
and I’ve exposed poetry
to be in the lair of predicament,
every syllable counted and every i dotted.
Someone on the internet will like it.
These Germans,
they like system and order.

Picked her brother apart,
except that Skeptic’s Kaddish fella,
who goes around publicly
and discerns poetry,
and he can make you meet poetry in a formula.
It’s not weathered beat.
It’s not the formula he’s lookin’ at.
It’s his heart and matter.
There’s a haiku,
or a whatchamacallit he’s discovered
that no one’s ever heard about.
A poet has these easels,
and he makes them shine
with the testimony of word.

He passes the feeling test.
He goes beyond words into something else.
How elusive it is to say.
You know you’ve met a poem,
but let’s hand it to ‘im will yah?
David Daylight,
ben Alexander,
measured right
everybody call home.

You can’t find this on paper.
It’s in the poet’s test,
what he meets inside himself to write the poem,
a sensibility in time
that’s brought him world after world
of be the horseman in the room.
He moves humanity along
in great waves of identification
and another brand of thinking
that goes for the goal of everything,
its reach and purpose in time,
how the world was made and why,
and can I be pretty in it?

Every little thing
is a poet’s mule,
the suddenness of his mile
(the traditional lift to pronoun
stutters my feet),
not to figure out and keep,
to brandish science in the room
or the philosopher with his stone.
We must show them to you as they are
with their mystery still behind them
made greater by the sacrifice
but revealed
in the paradox of life.
Oh my great big friend David thank you.
You’re the bravest man alive.

This poem was reblogged by The Skeptic’s Kaddish