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  • The aim: to prompt to action through detachment.
  • The mood: to play on this paradox, standing suspended between anger, revolt, disgust, sorrow, admiration or indifference, so as to finally assert dissent and freedom of thought. With the risk of losing one’s mental bearings in the process.

I find repetitive refrains somewhat boring. I thought it proper to show a progression.

Is there anything like a female form of poetry? I think so! Here the general feeling of powerlessness is quite a female trait. But it is fake (J ). It is in fact an appeal to reacting to outrageous situations. Men would generally resort to an appeal to arms. (Of course, it’s no Gospel truth, just something to ponder over).

I have not indicated a title for the poem. It is open to suggestions, since looking for possible titles means searching for a theme.
It is my conviction too that poetry is meant for the ear, but also for the eye.

That it is music for the ear is well-known. But plays on words, such as: “I spy with my little I” in this poem, are obviously devised for the eye.

And rhymes, to my mind, cannot be aligned for the ear only. A ‘near rhyme’ sounds a bit like a near miss. My eyes – and ears! – like to feast on identical ending sounds whenever it is possible. It introduces symmetry.

When the poem depicts hard realities or conveys painful feelings, the result is some disruptive harmony that should strike the reader’s mind.

Poetry is music for the ear and for the eye.

This is certainly the reason why one of the greatest French poets, Victor Hugo, once warned: “Never put music on my verse!”. Which means that poetry is all in one: the lyrics AND the partition. (Again, this is just an opinion!).

Eventually, rhyme, rhythm, style, figures of speech, etc, must not be an end unto itself.

They are only here to discipline and enhance inspiration. And we must feel free to follow the flow of inspiration…safeguarded by adaptable rules.


You, who dictate His will to God, you, the holy mentor
Who unsheathe a black flag to slaughter a neighbour,
Who destroy in the name of the Creator,

I spy with my little I from my city
On the verge of infinity.

You, all sheen and shimmer, ensconced in gold,
Who believe that no soul cannot be sold,
Who rape and devour the world raw and cold,

I spy with my little I from my city
On the brink of infinity.

You, the fruit of my soul, the million loves of my life
I tenderly tended to through suffering and strife,
Who will abandon me to some hell with silence rife,

I spy with my little I from my city
On the eve of infinity.

You, the victim of a planned famine of jobs
Accused of producing too expensive heartthrobs,
Sacrificed to serial wealth and crazy mobs,

I spy with my little I from my city
In the shade of infinity.

You, the achiever, believer, torch-bearer, writer
Who outshine me and want me smarter,
Who outgrow me for the worse or for the better,

I spy with my little I from my city
In the depth of infinity.

You, even denied the right to die because you must toil,
Whom each self-adoring power will use as a foil,
You, forced to fake faith and face fate through all the turmoil,

I spy with my little I from my city
In the core of infinity.

You, who bear only male names, how could You exist?
No heaven of Yours sounds sane, so do not insist!
Creating You to Your image might be the real gist!

I spy with my little I from my city
The world spinning on infinity.

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