Mr. G has been writing poems, two or three a year, for the last 40 years.
He does not think he has a method and is not even sure if his lines should be considered poetry.
Whatever they are they came to him from god—knows—where and have strong meaning to him but may mean nothing to others.
He realizes it is very presumptive to try to send them out when they will probably be considered sophomoric or ignorant by serous poets. (or, maybe it could be considered brave?)
Mr. G collects poems and goes goes thru several poetry books a week looking for poems he likes.
Mr. G rarely finds a poem he likes.
Some of the reasons for this is that he dislikes poems that use the following words: I, my, our, we, you.
These pronoun poets reminds him to much of the many people he has met who have only one boring subject, themselves.
Also, Mr. G can’t stand poet angst.
He also dislikes poems that anthropomorphize things, such as, 'the cloud cried', 'the water smiled' etc.
He also dislikes lines that are indented for no reason that he can determine.
These dislikes, and others that he cant articulate, means he can go thru a book of poems in ten minutes.
So far, out of the thousands of poems Mr. G has tried to read, he has found 800 poems he likes.
He is not interested in determining why they appeal to him.
Mr. G considers poetry the essence of language and his poems are the essence of his language.
Actually, his poems are really one poem broken into little pieces.
None of his poems have ever been completed.
Mr. G does not welcome your criticism but realizes that your conceit in thinking you know what the hell he is talking about will probably mean he will throw it away and keep on doing what he likes.
A self taught poet ... (I know I know)
Mr. G has spent the first thirty years of his life growing up, the second thirty years working, and the third forty years plus (knock, knock) doing whatever he damn well pleases (he is also a believer in the Oxford coma).
He collects round rocks, natural not man made.
He also collects the flyers that fortune tellers put on car windshields, any additions to these collections would be appreciated.
Mr. G. lives in the nicest city in America and feels pity for those who do not.
But, he would like to state that if there is anyone with an apartment in Manhattan who would let him stay for any month of the year he would be glad to dedicate a poem to him/her/it.
Mr. G attended Noble Elementary school in Detroit, Michigan
Mr. G has never won a poetry prize or a prize of any kind.
His heart was broken when at the age of seven he lost his first and last bag jumping contest.
He has never entered a contest since.