Poems Are Eggs Laid By Authors Too Chicken To Hatch Plots and Too Lazy To Write Novels

Easily, this introduction could have been filled with quotations defining poetry, by Edgar Allen Poe, john Ruskin, Carl Sandburg, Samuel Johnson, William Wordsworth, T.S. Eliot, Matthew Arnold, Robert Browning, A.E. Housman, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, E.G. White, et al.

Even out of context, their descriptions would undoubtedly provoke much thought, each of these notables having written their insightful perceptions with no clue how such might expand our minds to realize the craft's cosmic dimensions in its limitless potential (What on Earth is he talking about?).

Answer: Nothing on Earth, oh thou who doth use thy colloquial thoughtlessness as a trampoline with played-out elastic and holes, for a springboard unto the vast emptiness of thy vacuous cranium. But for thou who understandeth, let us proceedeth.

Of course, this impromptu utterance is full of redundancies, but who can resist the opportunity to spout a Shakespearian effusion? Now, back to the opening phrase. Rather than take the horse-drawn carriage or trolley-care route of great pronouncements these esteemed authors have made, I thought to deliver something fresh, farm-fresh—though nothing of the mentioned writers is to me, stale—and that is the reason for this book's title:

Poems Are Eggs Laid by Authors

Too Chicken To Hatch Plots And

Too Lazy To Write Novels

There! I said it and I'm not taking it back! It's the freshest definition of poetry you'll ever read, (though acceptance may take, who knows how long?) fresh from the farm of a fertile mind, yes, a mammoth, colossal think-tank fueled by pungent, potent, warm, moist intellectual fertilizer, the most breath-taking cerebral chicken-manure the World has ever inhaled or been fortunate enough to step in!

This, is Poetry! Pure and simple. Read, laugh, weep, be inspired and filled with awe, overcome with its obsessive, luminous evanescence (Watch out, I'm revving up to bring forth these high articulations with panache—yes, from the old Italian word pennacchio, and this is not to be confused with Gepetto's wooden doll who was rescued from termites by Walt Disney, I believe) titillating the inactivity-numbed cerebral cortexes strewn all over the landscape out there).

But, that's it for now. I'll let the rest of the book provide your omelettes and scrambled, hard or soft-boiled, or "saladed" (I have a license to use such words, and it's not expired yet) eggs.

                                                                                                Bon Apetit!