There’s a great history of poets writing poems that declare they’re not poems. From Joyce Carol Oates’ THIS IS NOT A POEM published by the New Yorker:
in which the poet discovers delicate white-parched bones of a small creature on a Great Lake shore or the desiccated remains of cruder roadkill beside the rushing highway.
To Brian Bilston:
Today write a poem that declares itself not a poem but becomes one in the process.
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