Predators
Metre, your fallen empire, is forgotten;
an extinct way of thinking, weighed and measured.
We’re free from the tyranny of patterns,
out from under these staggered, sore and heavy feet;
your terrible dactyls, dipping and plodding, losing focus.
What’s an amphibrach, a trochee? They sound like bones,
fossilized remains, long forgotten
until you dug them up and brushed them off;
a retrofit skeleton, a relic from your creative period.
Poetry has evolved, grown wings
while yours were clipped, and cut its teeth
to sharp and cruel points. It wanders left and right,
looking for a way inside,
waiting to catch you off guard. When it strikes,
when it latches on and sinks in,
you will learn how hard it can bite.
YOU ARE READING
On Form
PoetryA collection of poems about writing and poetry. 1. On Form 2. Title Match 3. Subjects 4. Brief 5. Speech 6. Executive Decisions 7. On Complexity 8. Predators 9. Write From... 10. Self Portrait 11. Pour Advice 12. Nocturne 13. First Blood 14. Last Ri...
