Sometimes the brain is tangled

Sometimes the brain is tangled
The long-distilled calm uprooted
By a few moments of reality
We struggle to recapture the peace
Grope the air, grasp the wind
Finally, giving in, coming back into reality
Leaning on the counter, biting the cut melons
And realizing that normalcy is not so bad as we had thought
We just had to reacclimate to our circumstances

And poetry helps
Poetry lulls the outer brain into a daze
Deadens it, tranquilizes
Til once again the inner brain peeks out
Unguarded by its older sibling
Steps out, breathes in
Sings

And so I extol the virtues of bloggetry
Poetry on blogs
By poetloggers, ploggers, bloggets, bloets
The emancipation of thought by verse
The writer is freed, the reader admittedly fettered
And so bloets are different from poets
The bloet tries a little harder to be clearer
People do read it; it must needs be clearer
The writing a little less obfuscated
Cultural references admitted at the risk of anachronism
Rough verse favoured over painstaking precision
The ocassional typo admitted without fuss

To the aspiring bloet I recommend
No university course in poetry
No printed anthology of verse
But recordings
Of poets reading their poems
There is a cassette put out by Caedmon, where you can hear
Yeats' trembling voice, and Auden speaking of Yeats
Atwood's trembing voice, and Dylan Thomas'
MacLeish's alien voice, and Robert Frost's
Pound's mischievous voice, and e e cummings'
And Eliot's haggard voice, decrying the world.