Finding Art in Small Packages
As an artist, I’ve always been drawn to the idea of creating something beautiful out of small or unexpected materials. That’s why I was so excited when I rediscovered the micropoetry I had written on the back of a server. In my daily life, I find myself constantly inspired by the world around me, and I often jot down my thoughts in short, poetic form. These micropoems, as I like to call them, are small and simple but full of meaning.
I’ve come to appreciate the art form of micropoetry as a way to distil complex emotions or ideas into their essence. It’s a practice of using just a few words to convey a feeling or an image, much like a haiku or a tanka. And like those forms, micropoetry has a rich history, with roots in ancient Chinese and Japanese poetry.
In many ways, micropoetry is a form of visual art, too. The words themselves can create an image in the reader’s mind, and the way they’re arranged on the page can add another layer of meaning. This makes micropoetry a perfect complement to my other artistic endeavours, such as painting or printmaking.
As I continue to write micropoems, I find myself experimenting with different forms and styles. Some are humorous, others are melancholic, and still, others are simply a snapshot of a moment in time. But all of them share a common thread of simplicity and economy of language.
If you’re looking to incorporate more art into your daily life, I highly recommend trying your hand at micropoetry. It’s a form of creative expression that anyone can engage in, no matter their experience with poetry or writing. And who knows, you might just surprise yourself with the beauty you can create in such a small package.
Sweet words I love you
but not your fickle rules,
your I’s before E’s except after C’s
and all that shit they teach in schools
The less I consume the more I feel I grow,
the more I learn the less I think I know.
There is something we know to be true
how can I catch myself
if I’m always catching you?
When the world stops spinning
and truths coincide,
he watches in rapture
as dead run and hide.
There is a wolf that sleeps deep in my heart,
when it wakes it tears all I love apart.
Witnessed the funniest damned thing
that set my mind in fits,
in sailor outfits.
With hands & feet planted in the earth,
healing myself with every restorative breath.
at times my sartorial style can be a bit off whack,
but the supermarket,
now that’s just crap.
Scolded monkey mind for causing so much trouble,
perhaps a wiser thing to do is give the monkey a cuddle.
like a thousand drumming monkeys pissing on the roof,
I do hope this place is waterproof.
they say you are a vice,
but without you in my life
I doubt my days would be half as nice.
on Venus’s Mount,
I dance in anticipation of loves warming rain.
Beneath his suit and cape,
the superhero is like the rest of us,
nothing more than a naked ape.
CUTE LITTLE BIRD,
LOOKING AT ME FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD,
ME IN MY BIG BLACK TRUCK,
SWERVE TO AVOID,
YOU DON’T GIVE A FUCK.
the mistress I love & obey,
I drank from her bosom and forever we shall play.
I sit with eyes of tears
and think of things I wish you had said,
you had far too few years,
oh shit, Dad you really are dead.
Got the latest DVD
of the Glaswegian called Billy,
I wonder if he will insist on showing us his willy?
I do adore the feminine spirit and its need to create,
it makes something deep down shiver and shake.
I kneel naked in hell’s fire,
surrounded by the devil’s choir,
a distant angel sings,
and so I spread my wings.
I am the foolish faun
that locks horns
I LOVE WORKING WITH OTHERS,
INSTIGATING A CREATIVE FIRE,
THROUGH LAUGHTER WE BECOME BROTHERS,
TOGETHER WATCHING THE FLAMES BURNING HIGHER.
I think about all the things
I’ve done and I have seen,
and stand in wonder
of the man, I could have been.
I tweet these words,
craft them few,
ponder & stew,
given these times
what would Chekhov do?
I admit I am no writer,
but I have grown up a fighter,
I will stand firm,
I won’t give in,
my war with dyslexia I will win.
It is awfully hard
to pick fights with others
when you view all as
sisters and brothers.
Insomnia what’s wrong with yah,
with you, I wish I could rhyme,
I’m so tired
I’m going to give up trying.
Men become demons when they feast
on the decaying cadaver of this poor beast
Love has no rules,
no diagnostic tools,
the only judgment that can possibly be right,
is do whatever gets you through the night.
Lovers elope overseas of tears,
abandoning the sorrow of the anger years