Erratum

"A poem should not mean, but be." Who said that?

Unlike narrative, which can run stinking and drooling over the page like a much-beloved-and-forgiven toddler ("Oooh, isn't she just too adorable, the little poopy-pants?"), a poem is bare bones, word-specific, succinct. It cannot afford sloppiness, be it a wayward adverb, or some bit of extraneous punctuation. Ew.

Because of its exacting nature, it is my experience that a poem requires a gestational period at least as long as an elephant's, and prior to this blog, I pretty much adhered to that rule. But blogs are nothing if not ongoing (in my case they're mostly nothing), thus the preemie of my October 15th post. Which is currently at the gill stage, and will continue to develop lungs for weeks to come, possibly years, if the poet lives that long.

But an early delivery was induced because that's show biz. Due to certain circumstances on The Road of Life, my posts have been few and far between of late, and I'm aware that countless fans breathlessly await word. Thus, the preemie. If you haven't yet read it, don't. Wait a few months and try again. Then a few more.

Meanwhile, I remain enslaved by yet another accidental poem ("I didn't mean to do it, officer, the gun just went off!"), in thrall to the ever-elusive comma, not to mention adverb, which will let me sleep through the night once again and not wake wild-eyed and suicidal at 3 a.m. screaming, "Omigod that's four 'suddenlies'!"

Just so you know.