I wonder if I lie will I ever be a poet, will ever
these stories about stories become more translucent
(like christian boys in their minds when they sin) will
ever I be given new fish to swim inside me, something
to carry from place to place god as you have made me
alive out here, with not enough time to be different?
Dude. This is money. Every word. Wish I had come up with “will ever I be given new fish to swim inside me”. All of it.
At the risk of putting my foot in my mouth–I often do that–this a very well written prose-poem. Tight language and imagry. KB
This isn’t a prose poem. A prose poem goes to the end of the margin. It’s a lined poem. And I am sure that Britt has put some thought into where each line ends. It might not be metrical to you, annotating60, and it might not sing and rhyme in whatever way you define poetry, but it’s not a prose poem. It’s an amazing poem, period. See my comments below.
I really appreciate the way you address honesty here. There is nothing trite about it. I find it interesting to think about how “the well” could dry up (the fish could swim toward other streams) if writing ever became a dishonest exercise.
I concur with everything that Jeremy and Noah have said here. The way I know it’s good poetry is that it hits me in the gut with its velvet glove, and I am jealous that I didn’t write it.
Still a fan. Love what you write.
So wonderful to see people talking about my poetry. Thanks and love to all of you.