Poetry is a White Mammoth.
Writing is nothing more than a Hunting Club: and everyone has already taken their rifles and their
ammunition. Centuries ago.
You arrived a little late.
Therefore: there are no more rifles or ammunition.
what we could do
to hunt the White Mammoth
is to ambush him, throw us on top
and open it with his teeth. There is no other.
The now owners of the Hunting Club (remember
who kept the rifles and the
bullets) they intend
teach you to hunt
to you!
You don't even have a knife at hand.
That you have nowhere to drop dead.
Don't go to those Hunting Clubs.
Hunt alone. A poet always hunts alone.
And when they see you appear in town
blood stained
dragging a poem through the streets
and they ask you, embarrassed,
how did you manage to kill him without his
rifles and without lessons from him,
there, poet,
You're going to point your teeth at them.
Thus and only thus is the Mammoth hunted.