On the poetry day course I did a week ago, one of the exercises was to compose a found poem. This was by cutting random lines out of a magazine and assembling them into a poem. You get some really abstract results. Here’s one.
That summer (a found poem)
I was born the summer she died,
but couldn’t leave the country,
could only be temporary.
Father was one of the last of that generation,
doubling and quadrupling,
but it wasn’t fun any more.
You wanted to drop the glam,
to make a record everyone hated.
We could experiment,
wrote brilliantly together
to create something new,
suffer for good art,
a pretty good second bite.
He was like a bad luck charm,
looks back at a rollercoaster
Street Poetry album.
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