The Poemdemic: Poetry and Quarantine

A poem : An essay

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

Turn ye inward
curl up and ply
a chance to see
with peaceful eye

how all looks now
without the rush
of job or school
in place of hush

where time takes place
in other things:
a sponge, a rug,
a wrench, some strings

of thread; a bird,
a lamp, your knee.
Condense them all
to poetry.

As you turn about in your smaller spaces of time — working to perform and performing to work // playing to grow and growing to play — stop.

Stop in new ways. When you stop, see what you don’t.

Write it.

That is what words are really for — tracking your observations and thoughts. When your words fall into certain tracks, they become art and function as poems. Poetry is to ocean what hydrogen is to oxygen what sound is to air what voice is to frequency.

Be frequent.