Write for You!

Guy de Maupassant wrote,“The public as a whole is composed of various groups, whose cry to us writers is:

Comfort me.

Amuse me.

Touch me.

Make me dream,

Make me laugh,

Make me shudder,

Make me weep,

Make me think.

And only a few chosen spirits say to the artist:

“Give me something fine in any form which may suit you best, according to your temperament.”

This brings up an amusing and realistic concern. As poets do we write for ourselves and hope for the reader’s connection? Or do we weave an experience filled with sensory imagery, rhythm and detail for a few readers who bring a similar understanding to the page?  




Do we imitate a style to persuade an editor to publish our work?

By tickling my own funny bone, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

The Heart of the Matter

Why does the heart always get credit

when pleasure or pain take the breath away?

“We do the work, ” say the lungs.

“Breathe. Breathe. We fix it.”

The heart claims it doesn’t break,

“I don’t even wrinkle.”

Fingers create fists, “We feel, really feel.”

"Well, we run from distress,” the feet say.

Liver and kidneys shout that they

deal with all bodily evils first.

The eyes widen to say,

“Tears wash away the chaos.”

“Hey, don’t forget us adenoids and tonsils,

 - if you still have them."

“Ha. Ha," says the spleen,

"Appendix can’t pronounce vestigial.”

The navel chuckles, “Don’t ask the colon's opinion.”

Throughout this chatter,

the brain has remained complacent.

“Have fun without me,”

it sings as it flits out an ear.


Amuse yourself. Write what flitters in your fancy. Let words flow from your insight first.


Smile if the reader appreciates it also. Forget pleasing an editor.