Arse Poeticas

March 12, 2024

[ free-verse poetry ]

Arse Poetica (First Draft)	Arse Poetica (Revision)
When writing a poem about poems The author seems to go to Mars And then lose themselves, up in the stars We tend to disconnect from emotion But tears and laughs and all that burns That is what makes a poem churn And when the author feels they need to say The reader, on their own, you there, You must think us Narcissus, and this, our pond. Constantly going over the rote technique You may find it uncreative; is it? Hopefully we make you think a bit discrete So when you see an arse poetica, Draw up your sleeves, man your pencils Scribble on the page with meaning, for we do not offer it here.	To revise your own poem about poems One must rein yourself in from Pluto, Back up on solid earth, to let the star grow. Its annoying disconnect from raw emotion Causes me some burn through a tear and a laugh But my poem is an emotional graft, making me learn. So when the poet commits, I must too. Me, a reviser, with my own self, the past, Perhaps I am the Echo, and this, my Narcissus. Immediately befallen in love with this new idea, But cursed by Juno to only be able to repeat myself, Stuck watching thyself, murmuring out “come together.” Though immortal, this poem is lost, Hidden in a forest within the stars, Until all that remains is the sound of its own voice. So when I repeat my arse poetica, I draw up my sleeves, ready my worn hands Shift my tones to find meaning, for we do not offer it here.

Arse Poetica (First Draft)

Arse Poetica (Revision)

When writing a poem about poems
The author seems to go to Mars
And then lose themselves, up in the stars

We tend to disconnect from emotion
But tears and laughs and all that burns
That is what makes a poem churn

And when the author feels they need to say
The reader, on their own, you there,
You must think us Narcissus, and this, our pond.

Constantly going over the rote technique
You may find it uncreative; is it?
Hopefully we make you think a bit discrete

So when you see an arse poetica,
Draw up your sleeves, man your pencils
Scribble on the page with meaning,
for we do not offer it here.

To revise your own poem about poems
One must rein yourself in from Pluto,
Back up on solid earth, to let the star grow.

Its annoying disconnect from raw emotion
Causes me some burn through a tear and a laugh
But my poem is an emotional graft, making me learn.

So when the poet commits, I must too.
Me, a reviser, with my own self, the past,
Perhaps I am the Echo, and this, my Narcissus.

Immediately befallen in love with this new idea,
But cursed by Juno to only be able to repeat myself,
Stuck watching thyself, murmuring out “come together.”

Though immortal, this poem is lost,
Hidden in a forest within the stars,
Until all that remains is the sound of its own voice.

So when I repeat my arse poetica,
I draw up my sleeves, ready my worn hands
Shift my tones to find meaning,
for we do not offer it here.