What is a poem?

A breath of summer wind across a lake? The rhapsodic glint in a farmers eye as she gazes fondly upon her favorite tractor? A caveman in a caveman outfit? A Rolex at the bottom of a lobster tank? If anything, a poem is a dog on a windy night staring upward at an escaped parade blimp in wonder and silence as the green fields around him whip eternity, but even then it depends on the dog and the blimp.

At this point in all the previous editor’s introductions, everyone has acknowledged their own subjectivity. Well, fine. I can be subjective too. In fact, judging something called Best New Zealand Poems has brought me out in so much subjectivity induced paranoia, I’ve abandoned the masthead entirely and will henceforth refer to this edition as Now That’s What I Call Poetry! Volume 19; Aotearoa edition. Read the full introduction >