When I feel uninspired or the words won’t come on their own, I turn to found poetry.
Poems can be found everywhere.
I’ve read that Michelangelo believed there was a sculpture waiting for him in every block of marble. He did not create anything with his chisel, he merely revealed what was already there. A “found poem” is much the same. The poem already exists, it’s just waiting to be freed.
For this poem, a dictionary was my piece of marble – specifically my faded red copy of Webster’s New Collegiate dictionary (copyright 1974). I pulled it off my bookshelf and let the pages fall open.
And my chisel? A black sharpie.