the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

found poem

…but if you want to dumb it down to geography
“East is East, and West is West”1
it naturally oscillates
history, literature, biography, art, religion;
revolution, spreading the true
Qualities of Angels.

Energy, with a slight chance of causing moderate fire;
please stay out of here, unless
in trouble,
“thy soul with crosses and with cares”2.

Whether or not it hurts
a state of total nakedness, as at birth
engaged in a discussion about power,
cut from the trees
near the beginning
of the world.

1 From ‘The Ballad of East and West‘ by Rudyard Kipling
2 From “Mother Hubbard’s Tale” by Edmund Spenser

The rules:
For each line,
1. highlight the titles of successive posts on blog
2. right-click ‘search Google for “. . .” ‘
3. choose some words from the first page of search results
4. add punctuation, capitalisation as desired.
[Some of the control lost in steps 1. and 2. is regained in steps 3. and 4.]
Repeat 1.-4. until finished.


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5 thoughts on “found poem

  1. You have to be kidding…but I know you’re not. I like it, but I am disturbed at the same time.

  2. Academia is the catalyst that brings out my latent organizational incompetence. My students are human, and that still surprises me at times. My comments will have to wait a while…a student just came in.

  3. Actually my comments will have to wait until I am more coherent. Even given coherence, I am not sure I understand my reaction well enough to comment. It is a strangely appealing poem, and the meaning of it hovers on the edge of my vision like some ragged figure beckoning. (I allude to Flannery O’Connor whenever possible). Well, I’m getting carried away.
    I wish you well and I am looking forward to more from you. I have been thinking about Neverman since you first posted the poems. You make me really really want to write some more but poetically I seem to be empty.

    • Hi Carroll
      thanks for the “looking forward”. There are many ideas swirling around, sketched in notebooks, drafted here and there, recorded on my phone while cycling home even, but no actual poetry for some time. Not sure why; I have an unexplained reticence at present. I still check your RSS feed often, just in case your muse returns.

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