One of the consequences of adult caretakers trespassing you in boarding school is that you’re unlikely to trust the way anyone wants to teach you. So, when I discovered R.P. Blackmur all by myself in a bookstore, it felt like an act of rebellion. Fortunately I had happened on The Double Agent, his 1935 book of essays that introduced what came to be called the New Criticism.  I understood none of this. I just liked what Blackmur had to say, which was that we should pay closer attention to the way things are said.
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How many people in this insipid, arid, technological age will be able to understand a line like: “One does not feed the heart with reasons?”  A positivistic age cannot help but to seek over-intellectualized explanations even to vital concerns. We seek in the psychoanalyst the very same inane, conditioned answers that, we, in our zombie-like, myopic lives have come to embrace and cherish. This process is conveniently circular, redundant.
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To make a found poem you take words that were originally intended for one, usually functional, purpose -- as in advertising copy or newspaper articles, where text and image aim to persuade the public of a product's merits, or inform the reader of events that took place-- and you invest them with a different, aesthetic one. The words, viewed on their own in this new way, take on added power, something like a metaphorical resonance.  A kind of found poem, though not the only kind, consists of a prose fragment lifted from such an ad or article and set down on a blank page, in, say, a literary magazine, where the way it is read is changed by its new context.
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