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261 Ars Poetica I’ve had enough of poets who repeatedly proclaim they’re poets and compose sestinas just to show they can but never see that wordplay’s not the same as poetry, which matters so much more since it confirms that those who wield the pen cannot help writing what they write because the secrets that they learn whenever they’re inspired reveal how poetry comes when it comes, and when it comes, it comes as unexpectedly as summer lightning, and the few struck numb are dared to say just once what only rarely can be said at all, but, dared or not, they strive the way undaunted sculptors carve and whittle masterpieces out of ice although they’re cautioned in advance that warmer weathering will swallow everything they sculpt like substance silenced into shadow— but still, but still they do it. ...

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