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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

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A Few Words About The Mercy Killing: The Death of Poetry

Have you ever heard of Joseph Addison and Richard Steele? Nah, not many people have. I remember them not primarily as the authors of hundreds of essays in two publications called The Tatler and The Spectator but because they feuded with Alexander Pope, Jonathon Swift, John Arbuthnot, and their group known as the Scriblerus Club. Yes, I had to look it up because I had forgotten the name. Why do I even bring it up? Well, The Mercy Killing: The Death of Poetry is my Scriblerus Club except all of the members are me. No, wait! Dr. Philip Anderson, taking the pseudonym, Martinus Scriblerus, used by Alexander Pope and later George Crabbe, wrote the introduction titled The Prologue. One set of lines in his work always sticks with me: “…poetry has fallen on evil days/And gone to hell a thousand different ways.”

Unlike The Purple and Blue Collection of Poems, which is a compilation of poems written across 16 years or so, I wrote The Mercy Killing: The Death of Poetry in a frenzy of two or three months. The allusions to, the parodying of, and the direct copying (I should say using words and phrases.) from other works are so heavy in this book that I have forgotten most of them—exactly from which works they came. I was in Dr. Anderson’s seminar in Neoclassism when I wrote this so I suspect it is most heavily flavored by Dryden, Pope, Swift, Johnson, maybe some Voltaire. I can see bits and pieces of all of them in these works.

The title poem, “The Mercy Killing,” may be one of my own personal favorites of my own (Huh?). Though I have rewritten several of the poems in this book, I have never thought of touching this one. How many poets have attempted to write about having to kill a cow that prolapsed while birthing a calf? How many have then compared that to the death of poetry? Not many, I would guess.

The Mercy Killing: The Death of Poetry contains more prose than what I have ever written because it is an imitation of the Scriblerus Club. The prose sounds, at times in its structure and word usage, a bit archaic. That is on purpose.

I have rewritten and reworked two of the poems in this book at least a half dozen times. Both “A Seven Hour Love Song” and “Atheists and Empty Spaces” are prominent fixtures in my book Atheist and Empty Spaces, which is currently being edited for publication. I had also rewritten them for an unpublished book The Promises I Keep. They keep getting better and better.

Anyhow, now Kellie is telling me that I am writing too much for Facebook. This is more like a blog. Sorry! Hope some of you read this far.

The Mercy Killing: The Death of Poetry is available through Amazon, but the last time I looked, it was not available through Barnes and Nobles. I have several copies that I can share, sell, give away, or loan out. Email me if you are interested, and we will find a way to get a copy to you. I also have some bookmarks that I can give away.



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I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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