Paraphrasing Wisdom: Truths You Can Only Get from Poetry... or Something

By Eric Michelson

Poetry is silly. I don’t mean your poetry, Steve. Your poetry is great. It’s not boring, it’s not pretentious, and all those well-placed metaphors are really subtle and not clichéd at all. I’m talking about all the other poetry in the world. That poetry is stupid. I’m also not talking about this book of poetry. This book of poetry is like yours, Steve – amazing AF. Oh what, you don’t want to read a book of poetry? You’re too good for non-Steve poetry? Well look, you’re probably right. You’re too good for this book. Or maybe, you’re too gud fur dis bhuhk. Ever think about that? No, you didn’t. #freewisdom4usteve. What’s this book about? Daffodils and pigeons and eggs and dead skin and Mandarin and iron and God and muffins and blank and hippies and and and secrets and science and princesses and peanuts and Ethereum and tea and Steve and cake and staggering amounts of paraphrased wisdom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359754380

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Paraphrasing Wisdom: Truths You Can Only Get from Poetry... or Something

PARAPHRASING WISDOM

Truths you can only get from

poetry… or something

ERIC MICHELSON

Copyright © 2019 by Eric Michelson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This eBook edition was first published in 2019.

ISBN 978-0-359-75438-0

Prologue (or Preface)

As a preface (or prologue),

I will,

in stanza form,

attempt to make known the

numinous discovery

of poetics.

But of course,

such a task is nothing short

of an outrageous

expedition

aimed mostly at filling up space.

And time, of course.

And, of course,

space.

I invite you to think about all those times

you’ve read pieces of poetry.

And now think about all the time

you’ve spent thinking about

said pieces of poetry.

And now,

you thinking about those times

is taking up a lot of time,

and space.

It’s an interesting concept.

Or is it?

It is.

You see, I will sit here

and rant—

as I like to do.

But I’d rather you don’t pay too much attention

to my apparent insanity.

You should attempt to examine yours,

as I’m sure you’re already well aware of its existence.

And if you aren’t,

let me tell you,

it exists.

Or does it?

It does.

I first became aware of poetics

listlessly flowering as it lay

poised on a fragile blue Daffodil

rocking in the afternoon breeze

of a fast decaying Spring.

But in reality, none of that is true.

Daffodils bloom early,

so they’d already be in full bloom by the time spring rolls around.

And they don’t last very long,

so they wouldn’t be there in late spring.

Never in the history of daffodils has one ever existed

in late spring.

#science.

And blue?

Blue daffodils?

Now you’re just talking nonsense.

Come on, Eric…

But of course, we could say that

the flower’s fragility (as mentioned by the poet in line 3),

because of its early bloom (something I just made up),

is causing it to turn blue,

as if it’s sad (a cliché, but easily recognizable symbolism).

Because not only is it dying,

its joyful counterpart—Spring (notice the deliberate capitalization)

is also dying.

Tragic.

So once again we fall into a snare of two persistent questions:

Who am I?

And…

What am I doing?

These questions seem to answer themselves…

in writing.

My writing, of course.

Coupled with a tone