Why I write the things I call poems

A reconstruction of Hekataios's world in Wikipedia.

“A boar was in the mountain and he did many terrible things to the Psophidians.”

—Hekataios of Miletus (ca. 550–476 BCE)

This is prose that time has turned into poetry. Everything's transforming itself, right under our noses. Boar and PsophidiIans are long gone, yet here they are.

In my closet hang neckties and a bespoke suit I'll never wear again. But I don't discard them either. They have their stories, and perhaps someone will want them again someday.

I buy my clothes now, when I do, mostly from Twice Is Nice. I prefer things that other people have broken in for me. They're more comfortable than new stuff. Cheaper, too, of course.

Others have also worn in my words for me. What if I had to invent them myself! Or buy them off the shelf at a word store—perhaps order them from Amazon. Heaven forbid!

    I walk most everywhere. Walking, I find things people have thrown out, even works of art, paintings that they have painted, or interesting objects that age, the long process of being something, has turned into art.

They may need a little cleaning, sanding, and staining, but they are undoubtedly art. Their previous owners failed to recognize them for what they were becoming and threw them out. Anything you put out on the sidewalk is up for grabs is the rule here!

    Contrariwise, many things that are called art aren’t, in fact, in my opinion. Although objects almost always become art of some kind if they last long enough.

“The tales of the Greeks are many and risible,” said Milesian Hekataios (“the Father of Geography") two and a half thousand years ago.

After lying around unloved for centuries, those ludicrous Greek tales became art—finally, even the very basis of Western civilization —if you can call what we have today civilization.

I write the things I call poems, not only because I enjoy doing so, but hoping that some day, maybe a long time from now, someone may find them on the kerb, so to speak, like them, pick them up, and take them home.

Hercules captures the Erymanthian boar that ravaged Psophis in Arcadia, depicted on a black-figured amphora from Etruria by the Antimenes painter (ca. 525 BCE). Louvre Museum, Paris.

On Hekataios of Miletus: see, https://sententiaeantiquae.com/2017/03/29/many-absurd-tales-some-fragments-froom-hekataios/

Thursday, November 4, 2025