The Catalyst, or Why I was booted from Poetics 101

Please—no more

poetry prompts.

They’re living with

the larks in la-la land.

None which light a

bulb for what’s been lost.

Write about

your very first camping

trip. Sure, I’ll scrawl about

the tents in فلسطين.               

Ones with scourge & rats.

Cute as a whisker’s twitch.

Torn just like a kite

that’s clawed by

osprey. Mine got stuck in

oaks like Charlie Brown’s.

Epitomize your childhood—

a single, joyous

image will suffice.

What names do the

animals call themselves?

Does a chicken

know it’s chicken? I’m not talking

cowardice. If you were

wedged in cages, the imprint of

the grilles upon your down, nesting

in your dung, you’d be more than a

little uneased. Strung downside-

up like Spanish Inquisitions.

What sin is there in feathers—

the lay of morning eggs?

Yolks are but our

star as metaphor.

Tell me about the light.

What impetus

for eyes that bleed in

dusk—I hear it’s deemed Ebola.

Red as your favourite colour.

The muse for over 40

years in prison just

for pot? Just for breathing

Black? A bed without a blanket.

Fuck right off with your spark

to write of grass. 

I see horses that should’ve

been; trees that would’ve

been—if not for inspiration—

it’s mine / run like the dickens /

how I’d spend a billion dollars. 

I picture Warren Buffet

with a parrot on his head—

there at the all-you-can-eat.

Jimmy! I told you to write of Jimmy!

Everything’s didactic

in the end. A pen is not a pulpit

yet it is. Say it without you

saying it. I did. That’s why every

page is barren. Vacancy. The motel

at the side of the road.

I know that someone’s there—

lilting like the arm of metronome.

Room 13. Second one from

the end. Knock as loud as you can.

It’s possible that the

housemaid’s there & fainted.        

What is the nature of sleep?  

Andreas Gripp

May 14, 2026

Note:

The Arabic name for Palestine is Filasṭīn 

(pronounced fah-leh-steen),  

written as فلسطين in Arabic script.

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