Why do honey-bees sting?
And rose-thorns prick?
Why does pussy-juice stink,
And punish the generous lick?

It makes you think,
Or sing,
About contradiction’s symmetry,
Found only in poetry –
If the poet be aware…

When into this truth you stare,
The circle becomes more appealing,
Than the grounded, pointy square…

Good & Evil lose their meaning,
Though not their feeling,
To those who are aware…

You’ll slip.
You’ll loose your grip.
But do not despair,
The ground you fear you’ll hit,
Isn’t really there.
You’ll fall right back to where you were,
Only slightly more aware…

Spread the word to the uptight,
In constant pursuit of solidity!
Show them samples of your flight,
Through Mama-Nature’s fluidity!

And don’t expect much favor-returning,
But rather some at-the-stake burning…

So ‘Why bother?’ you ask,
It’s simply your natural motherly task,
To have your pussy,
Or stomach,
Ripped open,
To give way to new life,
Which was bred, fed and shapen,
By your bitter-sweet inner strife…

Our Mama’s quite strange,
But she ain’t gonna change.
And we can never ever escape her.
Nor even kill her…

So at least rejoice when you can,
And perhaps it’ll be contagious,
And highlight the parts of her plan,
That our wills find advantageous…

So, here’s the end of our course,
You are now ready to graduate,
And if your soul be a poetic life-source,
You should soon begin to menstruate!

With best wishes for much luck and love,

Sir Tijn Po


‘This is my path; where is yours? For the path – that does not exist!’

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

I am not a poet of the rain,
Or any other pain,
Or even the sun,
Though I would be one,
If Nietzsche hadn’t done it over a century ago.

But I proudly do know,
How to articulate,
And celebrate,
The equality,
And unity,
Of our minds, hearts and sexes.
A notion which still perplexes,
And which I haven’t yet found,
In Dante, Blake or Pound,
Or any other,
Poetic brother,
Or sister.
(Save from several a Jazz Master.)

So here’s my task,
And all I ask,
Is that you wish me well,
Comrades in hell,
So that I not despair,
While doing my share,
Of banging out beauty –
That infamous,
Yet luscious,


Bent poetry…
Like the beautiful,

Perfect for times,
When people were trapped,
And broken,
By warped,
Social conventions,
And delusions…

Meters and rhymes,
Unless they emerge naturally,
From time to time,
Are the torturous corsets,
Of your thoughts…


Think how many ideas,
Or feelings,
Were altered,
Completely reversed,
Just to fit a verse,
Of specific,
And form…

The poet not saying,
What he really wanted,
Or felt,
Or exactly as he wanted to say it,
Just in order to be able to,
Say something…

You can see this in various discarded drafts,
Including my beloved Blake,
Where contradictory notions,
Are toyed with,
Swapping places when necessary,
Just to fit an accepted flow,
Or pattern…

But we are free now…

Still traumatized,
And sullied,
By millennia,
Of traumatic,

But free to fly,
And start the healing process,
The searching process,
The free expression,
And celebration,

And for that,
The broken,
Of meters,
Is simply insufficient…
Is contrary…
Like pink and orange,
Or Russian on a beach,
Or salt in Champagne,
To quote myself…

Fresh air need not be proven,
But is known,
By the lungs,
That breathe it…

And free,
By the free,

(Pound spoke of this,
With his,
‘Never broke a thought,
to fit a rhyme…’)

Sure there are times,
When the corseted,
Is dazzling…

The beauty of the jailed bird,
With its sheer brute strength,
Taking flight,
With its entire cage,
In tow…

When even the jails of convention,
Cannot keep a sensation,
Fully imprisoned…

But then you must think,
Of its impending doom,
And crash,
And tired wings,
And troubled,
Which causes pain,
In any empathetic observer…
As compared to its free-soaring peers,
Though less-dazzling,
As far as brute strength is concerned,
And induce smiles,
With their light,
Free flight…


Roses can’t all be as perfect as each other,
But they’re still all pretty blood-drops,
From the same fragrant Mother!

There is a place and time,
Where all things shine and rhyme,
With equal love and intensity,
Echoing nature’s sweet immensity.

Could Milton and Blake have both been right?
And what about Nietzsche’s merciless insight?
There is ever contradiction,
Amidst beauty’s endless friction.

The brilliant and beautiful,
Seem divided and measureable,
Only when the heat of passion becomes tame.
But like wax brought to a flame,
They soon give up their hierarchy,
And dance in drunken frenzy,
Ready to mingle, and consider as peer,
All that has snuck into that limitless sphere!

So indulge and stop comparing,
If you posses sufficient daring,
To see that what we experience,
Through all our art and science,
Are only hints and traces,
Of what our universe embraces!

Beyond the reach of our senses,
Exist infinite songs and dances,
Which the lucky geniuses intuit,
And then generously lead you to it.

So at least seem wise if you be not kind,
And leave your silly measuring sticks behind!


Human mathematics,
A film that crawls out,
Over every surface,
And structure,
Covering it with the slime,
Of human perception,
And measurement…

Like slugs,
Marking their turf,
Mathematicians cover all,
And conquer,
With their equations,
And (human) proofs…

‘And poetry?’ you ask.

Same shit…


Every culture has its cute little
Cops & Robbers side-show.

In some cultures the Cops usually win.
In other cultures the Robbers usually win.
And in some cultures the Cops are the Robbers,
And the Robbers are the Cops.

That’s the way it’s always been,
And that’s the way it’s always gonna be.
And, thus, this little side-show,
Has ceased to interest me.


Every body that is born,
Assuming that it’s healthy,
Has the same range of limbs,

There is always a heart,
And spleen,
– whatever the hell that does –
And liver,

Always the thinking area,
The pumping area,
The fucking area,
The shittin’ area…

And so it is in every family,
And generation…

There is always the shitty thief,
The sexy slut,
The wise leader,
The wiser explorer,
The jealous revolutionary,
With the jealous masses always on his side…

The bully,
And the do-gooder,
Who loves to help the bully’s victims…

The grafitti artist and his fans,
And victims…

The promisers of the supernatural,
And their fans,
And victims…

The talkers,
The stalkers,
The gawkers…

The ratios are almost always identical…

In some, the mind is larger,
In others its the stomache,
Or heart…

But they’re all always there,
Fighting their battles,
Pursuing their dreams,

Eternally jealous of each other,
Reluctantly dependent on each other,
Occasionally helping each other,
Usually stinting each other,
Or indifferently…

And, thus,
They progress forward,


‘But a rook takes the pawn!’ she said.
‘Oh, but I’m not playing chess,’ I said.

‘But a flush trumps a …!’
‘I’m not playing cards either…’

‘But a million dollars is more than a thousand!’
‘I’m not playing capitalism.’

‘But … is more famous than …!’
‘I’m not playing Hollywood.’

‘But … is holier than …!’
‘I’m not playing god.’

‘What are you playing then?’
‘I’m playing pleasure.’

‘Oh! And how do you play that?’
‘However you find pleasing,
I’m making it up as I go along.’

‘But what if your pleasure interferes with mine?’
‘I don’t get pleasure from bullying.’

‘But what if I bully you?’
‘You won’t get pleasure from my revenge.’

‘But what if I then take even more unpleasant revenge on you?’
‘Then we go to the end-game,
And may the best player win.’


Po don’t need no Nobel.

Perhaps I’ll give Nobel a Po…


She is the perfect type of person,
To explain my kind of person,
To your kind of person…

Pound had no PhD,
Nor did Van Gogh,
Or did Bach,
Or any of the other myriad volcanoes
– Actual,
And metaphorical –
That nature produces,
Every now
And again…

Without explanation,
Or justification,
Every once in a while,
Or every once in a where,
Nature brings together the precise combination,
Of materials,
And occurrences,
To produce volcanic eruptions,
Of lava,
Or genius…

Same difference…

You can’t buy your way,
Into becoming one…

Nor study your way,
Or steal,
Or sleep yourself up to it…

You either are,
Or you aren’t…

And if you aren’t,
The best you can hope for,
Is to study,
Or rim yourself to the top,
Of the heap,
Of academic experts,

Thousands of PhDs have,
And will be,
Achieved by analyzing people,
And things,
That barely know their experts exist…

If at all…

A fact that you can do nothing about,
Regardless of how inappropriate it is,
For me to shove it in your faces like this…

And I don’t do it to raise myself,
– You will already never see the soles of my feet –
But to try to instill some humility in you,
For the sake of those you keep trampled,
Beneath your stinky mediocre feet…

*In reference to being presented with the ‘honor’ of being introduced to a professor who just had her political-science book published by Harvard University Press.