To J again, I’m not sure there has been a behavioural account of what the flock does when one of their number is abducted by bike so who can say how they might react?

And the problem with writing about cats is they do one thing under human observation and quite another when alone. At any rate I’ll have to disappoint you – my cyclist only has a penchant for bird-meat.

Could the angry, helpless seagulls in the third stanza be those annoyed by the ruse?

Although fond of them, I view seagulls as self-serving and often pestilent. (The flock would’ve actually abandoned their distressed conspecific and fled.) I imagine those who see these birds more innocently will feel differently. To them, I say the captured seagull was released and rejoined his flock, which moved on to plague the many docks and piers and plazas by the sea. He was always a little wiser after that, but he couldn’t remember why.

The cyclist, his curiosity satisfied, never caught another seagull. He did move on to do something to a cat, which I hope to read about soon. Teo?

So Samuel’s question whilst objectively negative (‘balderdash’), provoked a positive subjective response. That’s one of the delights of debate and something to be cherished rather than shown the door. And, of course, the web is a brilliant host, which is why a site like this can be so exciting.

With regard to definition, I would say the only requirement for poetry nowadays is that it be a form of concentrated language. If it’s interesting in form and content then it’s good poetry. And I, for one and for what it’s worth, would certainly classify ‘Apparition’ as good: it describes a picture that is arresting, evocative, intriguing and memorable.

Since there was no civil attempt to engage me or the poem in your first post I won’t answer the empty questions. You might have simply said “This is balderdash and I don’t like it”, which would have gotten across just as much.

The passage you quote to support your distaste is a great deal more discussion-worthy, though it would have been interesting to see what you yourself have to say about it. I feel as though I’m in dialogue with a quote and question marks – not a speaker. It seems this poem has upset your artistic sensibility to such a degree that you have sought out old, dusty friends to help you dismiss it. So I’ve brought a friend to match yours, his name is Don Paterson and he gets his point across quite succinctly I feel:

Why does the reader so often assume that poetry should be written with emotion? Could they imagine anyone essaying a violin concerto or a sculpture, say, if their hands were shaking in fear, or their eyes misting over with love or grief?

My very own quote and question mark, rolled neatly into one.

But subjectivity is King, and tastes differ. Thanks for reading, and for your comments here and elsewhere on the site.

Might I first add that I am very pleased to see that my original comment was not simply erased, and that someone had the strength to have it included.

In a letter from a – now long dead, and obviously long forgotten – poet to his publisher, poetry was described as originating ‘from the fulness [sic] of [his] mind, from passion, from impulse, from many sweet motives’, and has, before and since, been held in high esteem as the out-pouring of the heart into written form, in such a way that the reader is washed away on a surge of emotion. Whether these ‘sweet motives’ be religion, nature, love, the human condition, this same core principle lies behind all poetry: that is the desire to make, through the use of just words, a reader overflow within themselves. Poetry is somehow beyond poetry, calling upon something at once within itself and external: something that guides, shapes and transforms everything it touches.

Perhaps you might say I am being too limiting on ‘poetry’, and that anything has the potential to be ‘poetry’, but I think many would agree that there is a limit to which poetry can be stretched before it resembles nothing more than an absence: a great void in roughly the same place as something great once stood.

Your first question is an interesting one. Art and cognition, ambiguity and intention – lots to think about and consider in terms of poetic discourse. The inverted commas you use in the final sentence also implies another avenue of debate: that some absolute, Platonic quintessence of poetry exists. Perhaps you could write an article for The Literateur about this subject: I’m sure many would love to read your ‘point’ if it was a little bit more articulate and thorough. Please amplify, and contribute something to a discussion! Snide bits of personal attack plumped up with miserable rhetoric adds very little. It’s called detraction for a reason.