Homunculus (Beta Version)What is poetry?
Poetry is the greatest amount of meaning in the fewest amount of words. Entryway poem – An erasure
I don’t usually like erasure poems, but through some experimentation this semester, I have found some new respect for this and other types of found poetry. An author can enrich this poetry exercise by explaining the thought behind their choices, and the typical absence of that explanation drove me away this type of poetry because the meaning behind found poems eludes the reader or relies on subjective personal connections. At times, this poetry can appear to be nothing more than combining other people’s words or erasing part of what someone has written without much thought behind it, regardless of how much work the author put into it. When I began working with this form of poetry, I felt like I was just looking for coincidental combinations and utterances that jumped out of or swarmed together on the page; however, while I was checking source material, I found the piece included here. It kept erasing words until there were only three words left. The remnants encapsulated so much of what I wanted to say that I had to make it my entry piece for this project. Not only did it perfectly illustrate my definition of poetry, it also inspired the theme of this work, the reconstruction of me. Through this experiment, I am attempting to erase my ideas about myself and recreate an identity through the exploration of poetry. Enjoy! |
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago never mind how long precisely having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
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