FreeWrights Peer Review™

At another forum, a very good and popular place, a certain poet (we'll call him The Poet here)
railed against strictures:

#6 Do not post images. In an effort
to keep the...servers working as quickly as possible,
forum users should not post images into messages.

Never mind that the excuse was nonsense (images are externally hosted),
no headway was made in changing the Victorian policy. No, that's not right;
Victorians celebrated illustrated word-works. Carroll, et al.

The Poet thought: What would happen if William Blake were to reconsider death and muse instead
to come to life again? And what if he were known to be planning to join a certain (good, other) forum
and apply his illustrated poetickal art for peer review?

:neutral:


And what if The Poet (this 'ere one) were charged with the duty of administering, upholding,
The National Organization's poetic word-only standard?

:neutral:
[font=Courier New]
#6 Do not post images.In an effort to keep
the servers working as quickly as possible
forum users should not post images to mess
ages.[/font]


____________________________________________



William Blake
Not Wanted Here

We're glad you're dead
Dead William Blake
How unfit thine art
Would be for criticism here

I cant
We are poets of the Word
Severed from the very
Brain itself. Like grey
Could speak but can't

II Will:
Illustrations aren't
In our builds
In our builds
Are Pizza Huts

III slices of plain and
All you want and
Though you like it
You may not ink
In pepperoni

IV code is
A line of text
Which draws forth
Colours by numbers

V know no
Reason why you can't
Copper etch a compliment
Except for just this one
Red Herring (#6) Thank You
Will for your not sharing





_______________________

I must create a system, or be enslav’d by another man’s.
I will not reason and compare: my business is to create—Jerusalem

And shall we weep
For some forgotten poet
Whose chimney sweep
Has cleaned his final floo?

And shall we dream
Jerusalem delivered
In cardboard box
And sealed with cheesy goo?

I wonder what
Should cause a dreaming poet
To sleep too long
Beneath the poison tree

For should those feet
In modern times be driven
To walk these halls
Their falls would meet with glee

We have not met
And yet I feel your shadow
Its cooling touch
Is where the roses grow

Now I shall beg
To hear your shepherd's whistle
For you have songs
That only poets know

-- Hope I'm not out of line, Reid, given we're strangers and all but it seems a shame for any poet to fall into silence -- without poets, we have only the babbling of the rabble.