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I’ve done it. I’ve written the most cliché poem in the world. Waldo Jaquith, over on the Virginia Quarterly Review’s blog, tried to prove that writers of clichés don’t get published. He discovered the opposite. And in doing so, gave up a juicy list of 12 clichés rampant in (usually) bad, bad poetry. Put them all together, and you get the most publishable poem ever! The New Yorker, I’ll be waiting for your call:

In the water, there is death.
Blood stains a stone,
once the color of bone.
My poetry is dead as is my heart. Like that fish.
No more birth, only darkness,
its eyes the color of rust,
no longer fears the cat.