Poetrie: Beginner's Lessons

About

by Malcolm Alexander

If you wish to be wealthy, duck beneath

the topcoat of a well-dressed river

until you come up with a mossy boot

filled with shiners. Spend them wisely.

To tread lightly on the earth,

first breathe in and out slowly

to sense how oxygen walks barefoot,

then observe butterflies, so weightless

even our poetry burdens them.

Avoid mistaking sadness for blueberries,

but if this happens remember only one

of the two tastes like a somersault.

Make nothing more of the moon

than what it is, a great big pebble

hunting for a shoe, not to be confused

with the heart, likewise a vagabond.

Inside of every stray cat lurks a person

who discarded love. Remember this

when you bend over to wind them up.

If you feel compelled to fly a flag,

note how it struggles in vain to be a rainbow

and how envy will make it twist and flap

like a tongue. Consider instead a kite.

If you desire to reach heaven,

have your body buried in an aspen grove.

In time, all of you will wick up

into a loud version of it.

If the din of the human world overwhelms you,

trace the voicebox of an orchid with your finger.

When you get to the aria, listen.

But beware, for beauty can be a lacewing

or a meteor, and lands wherever it pleases.

When you finish reading a poem,

bend it around so you can see

yourself in it. Then laugh out loud.

Everything else now should come easy.