• Brianna Fenty

Po-e-try

How do I write po-e-try?

Do I roll up to a roll top desk

in a rolling chair, With a walnut crest? Shall I pluck a crow's best quills To dip in squid's ink,

And go forth, mid-thrill? Should I drown my sorrows in liquors and hash, Suffocate on fine white powders and ash? From a fine dark man On a fine dark street, Where we'd so often, in secret, meet - Hoping to find divinity between Snorts, and Sips, and Smokes, so sweet? How do I write poetry?

How do I walk without hurry? How can I, so deep and profound, Affect a world which refuses to be round? So many words I cannot arrange, Dancing untended in my bed. So many words I can make up, Blendered like fruits inside my head. Tither, dither, dot and whatnot. The cat ran up the clot and such-lot. Something like that, or other, or not; Something 'bout someone's mother, or clock. Blither, blather, a bit 'bout the moon; Blah and Ra, a sonnet for noon. How do I write poetry, you ask? I don't, you know - look here, you'll see: I do not write this po-e-try. I write N o n s e n s e Nonsense, indeed. Trumble, dumble, humble wee me.


I wish I could write such po-e-try.

For now, I'll sit beneath our birch tree,

Waiting for you, to fly or to flee;

to teach me this - your art-is-try.


Teach me, please, your po-e-try.




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