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Poem

The Materials of
Criticism

- by  Bob Atkinson

to look upon a word
fixed art
for value of the
whole or parts
begins a journey
demonstrated
to frustrate each of
the five senses

do we? could we? can
we?
here in the "here
and now"
produce our cultural
standing
by lining words in a
row

can we? do we? could
we?
put value on our art
or would it suffice
to percolate
ingredients in a pot

that which makes up
the whole
contains some parts
plus simple hope
many seeds of doubt,
some blind faith
loose fundamentals
warmed to percolate

boil this stew in an
open pot
wander over meanings
uncovered
string appetite of
mind along a line
of selfish devotion
to an adept mind

thus craving
credentials and
accolades
with independence of
well written pages
try as nature
creates a need
molding most to firm
fixed greed

avarice dependent,
an encircled fire
aspiration drawn
toward life's desire
direction fielded,
ego supplemented
when open rawness
becomes regimented

broadcast to those
who care about
this person's rage
who loudly shouts
simple signals of
directional flow
mixed with endless
personal selfdom

all nuance
transmitted within
the hope
of mending what's
perceived as broken
broken carries
diverse meanings
when seen with eyes
of different
teachings

broken, to some,
fits life so tight
the critic's words
lie dormant,
unlighted
when not in tune
with rational heart
words have no
meaning, a useless
art

art fulfills some
need of nature
to analyze for form
and flavor
tenderly we read
their stuff
then regurgitate our
lunch

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