Self-Portrait as Ars Poetica
Sophie Bebeau
I should be allowed to write a poem     that slakes     & snakes through me
like a swallowed ribbon     coils     around empty space     answers
a question I did not know I was      asking     I am always asking

for someone    to bring me a bouquet     of exactly the right flowers    this poem
is asking you to    hunt me down    like an eight-ball     I want to be shot
into the bowels beyond     the pocket

I would like you to break     a cue     over your knee & annihilate     the urge
to talk things over

there was nothing     then there was something     uttered     I am trying to be
nothing again     if a poem does not     rinse the red from me     it's a problem

to try & pull     out of the brain     that which wants to stay     all these poems
tapeworms     segments     digesting     what is being digested

I'd desecrate any body     to get what I want     honey & curled mint     blood
is not important   only the stain   can erase   a name   I am tired of it   the living
the way a robin tires of the blue     of her eggs     I have become

hungry     for the large silence     at the heart of me
a chronic fermentation     I've made

all these portals to nowhere     in the cold snaps     between small wars
I tend to the poems in their sick beds     send psychic messages to anyone

who might know     low flame & precipice     I deliver my second hand
premonitions     when the colors feel correct     I skim the black off

the night     will fall in love where there is barely any     atmosphere
a poem has never tried to stop me     a poem has already predicted this lack

of oxygen     I should be allowed to write a poem that can't fight back
break it     off at the joint     like a wrist     slack with resignation

what consumes is also consumed     I wait patiently
for the tip of my tail     to reach the inside of     the tip of my tail
from the journal BLEATING THING MAGAZINE 
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Eleni Stecopoulos On "A New Poetics of Illness and Healing"

"I wanted to be clear-eyed about the violent ideologies embedded in discourses of healing, which I had experienced firsthand with those who called themselves healers. I was suspicious of charisma as a mystification of power. I knew that some of my audience would be just as suspicious and dismissive of the very term healing, given its frequent deployment by self-help personalities, wellness hucksters, and politicians to mystify the very conditions from which they profited and did not actually seek to change."

via LITERARY HUB
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Coverimage of Diane Seuss' book, Modern Poetry
What Sparks Poetry:
Diane Seuss on Reading Prose


"Keats’s ballad opens with three stanzas in the voice of a questioner, after which the knight-at-arms takes over, answering the questioner through storytelling. Likewise, set at the center of Lorca’s poem is a dialogue between the older and younger man. As the green girl teeters on the balcony, suspended between dream and reality, life and death, so Keats’s knight occupies the in-between, stranded by the faery 'On the cold hill’s side.' And each poem, in its way, serves as an allegory for the container itself, the ballad form, which inhabits the liminal space between narrative and lyric, story and song."
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