Found

Geof Huth, asemic pwoermd (15 April 2017)

In a sense--and probably the truest sense--every poem is found. This is not to say that every poem is a found poem, but only that the mind, often without any external inputs, finds poems that it didn't realize it was making.

All of this falls into my provable belief that everything we do as a human is extemporaneous. No matter how planned an action or event is, it is still guided by the tendencies of chaos and entropy, by the malleability of the human mind, by oversight and error--and by skilled improvisation.

Life, in the end, in the middle, and at the outset, is nothing by acts of extemporaneity. We can control nothing absolutely.

This process of improvisation, which is more a struggle for inspiration through dint of effort, is on my mind as I work through International Pwoermd Writing Month, because I'm trying to create so many kinds of pwoermds and pwoermd-related products each day. I try to keep my mind active and to focus on objects to find ideas in them, because I've so completely wrung my mind dry of all the ideas that are usually churning there.

Ironically, the hardest thing for me to find each day is a found pwoermd. Some days I just run across them. Other days I have to search high and low for words, only to decide that a fragment I see inside a word can constitute that day's found pwoermd.

So the struggle to be a productive pwoermdist continues, now fully half way through this month in celebration of the pwoermd.

pw(o'er)md