poems about

                                              
                                                      
                                              
  Sometimes my Thinking Complex under my skull 
produces thoughts/ I should reject: haughty thoughts, 
silly thoughts, seedling thoughts.  My tendency has been, 
however, to let such out.  Not sure why, but fear it is a 
false need.                    
                                                            
Poems about.  That is, poems which once existed or yet exist.  
Ten trillion?       
                                                              
What got me into writing poems?  This is a question I've 
repeatedly asked.  This is a question I've repeatedly 
answered.  Combining two major responses to this, one gets: 
Be a maker of poems/ only if you must.  The point of this, 
I surmise, is that the making of poems should arise naturally 
from who you are.  What about liking to hang around modes 
of communication, exploring the possibilities of them?  Does
this equate with/ arise naturally from who you are?  Should 
one care?  What got me into writing poems was my realizing
I found it easier to work with words than with numbers.  I
did have a need to express myself; and I had tried painting,
map making, building railroad layout scenery with wire and
plaster of paris, wood burning, plain and colored sketchings.
                                                             
Why am I pondering this now?  Topics related to it have been
posted variously recently.  Certain comments beneath those  
posts have been, to me at least, on the mark.  Whether a     
poet is led by an idea (a predetermined aesthetic) or by a  
medium (the symbols being used) or by both, the fact of a   
willingness (deriving from the pleasures therein) to spend
time crafting an artifact/ is reason enough.  Whether the  
efforts expended come to something of value to others is, 
or should be, secondary.  Making a thing as perfectly as   
that thing can be made should be primary.  Matchsticks or   
words, or, or, or: it is what is done with them that falls or
flies.  At whatever point a maker is satisfied, a made thing   
sits and waits, an object in stasis.  If no other sentient being    
ever interacts with it, its inherent worth does not change.
If an other sentient being does interact with it, and praises  
or dissses it, its inherent worth does not change.  Made things 
exist/ for their functionality.  Made things exist/ for their lack 
of functionality.  An accidentally made thing can be just as     
functional or non-functional, just as beautiful or ugly, as an
intentionally made thing.  What today gets high judgment 
marks, tomorrow may get low judgment marks; and whatever 
marks a made thing gets always depends on the aesthetic 
perspective of that sentient being who is judging.  Humans
have widely variant aesthetic perspectives.  Robots?  I do not   
know enough about them, or the possibilities about them.     
                                                                
In writing this I thought of many others whose opinions I    
could have quoted or paraphrased, but I have purposely/    
not done so.                                               
              
                                                     
                                                          
                                                        
                                              
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Rho00106