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Found Poetry

Found poetry is poetry that is constructed from an outside source or text, including literature, magazine or journal articles, novels, or art. The source is usually innocuous.

Emily Isaacson has utilized this literature form in her collection THE FLEUR-DE-LIS in one or two sections only. 

Sample: Poems created from original text of magazine article: "Where The Wildings Are." by Daniel Butler.


Foliage and the violet orchards

flowered and picked,

the folded and faded variety:

preserving traditions

with old jam.

Fields of fruit,

from Kent to Cambridge, vigor—

a strawberry flavor, the most

English of all. 

Linen Press

The pots, upside down

and brown

holding earth, as we

dry the moss and lichen,

a decorative accent.

The hot water

on the pot-bellied stove,

a twenty-minute endeavor:

the basins, for snow-pure

sheets, socks, and scarves

hanging in the breeze.



an engraved charcoal flight,

the ancient Romans

on the isle of wings:

the pigeonholes, laced

antique boots, leather-brown,

and monarchs converging

on wild asparagus.

The tiny white flowers

in a mother’s apron:

freesia an ointment

from the 17th century onwards,

chimneys, a soot-tainted

handkerchief, and

a wreath over the door knocker.


Pots and pans

in a quiet space,

small head, with one

moment’s wish;

cloth towels to wipe away

smears, and a wild goose lake

where the blue stains.

Hand mirrors,

silver, ivory, and ebony,

with chaste and embossed

flowers: wreaths, ribbons, and bows;

in the hedge, small wildings

heckling the wrens.

The Gardener 

The water can,

silver-blue and rain

falling into hay barrels;

the clouds, a thick lining

against Portugal’s clavier.

An indent per daffodil,

and weather-worn ladder

for the garden shed,


under a tangle.

Blackbirds, blossoms,

redwings, and fieldfares

join in after the frost.


Apples, no two alike,

from old cores,

grown among the verges.

Hidden deep in the woodland,

its seeds a jumble

for foxes, pies, and cider,

the crab apple dons its apron.

From pollen to blossom,

field to field:

woodpeckers, nuthatches,

and thrush nesting mistletoe

in the old apple wood.


Pondering through the boughs,

barrier to wind or stock,

the wildings

in the Welsh uplands,

pink with blossoms:

weighted down with

small green spheres,

the autumn, a hidden tryst

with light:

ripening a tune.

One apple for three thorns,

pips, as hedgerow root stock,

and graft a twig

from morn to moon.

 Emily Isaacson


What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart?


Emily Quote

I found meaning in

the little things,

and recorded

the symphonies of nature.

Somehow the movement

of the shadows and lights

over the earth,

played like a chord

upon the harp,

its stringed note lingering

into the dust of mankind.

--Emily Isaacson

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