It doesn't surprise me that there is such a thing as a "list poem." I'm a big fan of lists--I could hardly navigate my way through a week without them--and there are some lists that do evoke the poetic. I've always loved lists of colors (as in a watercolor paintbox, a box of crayons, a clothing catalog, paint chips). A menu is a mouth-watering list. A trip to the airport offers a horizontal list poem as I walk past other gates to get to mine, reading the destinations off the gate screens and mentally adding an exclamation point to each: Honolulu! Phoenix! San Francisco! Denver! Seattle!
I snuck a list poem of sorts into my third novel, Until It Hurts to Stop,
when the main character muses over the names of mushrooms in a field
guide. Tree names, bird names, and wildflower names are just as
satisfying. (I used to pore over a flower book that included in its
offerings "viper's bugloss," "blue vervain," and "butter-and-eggs." What
more could a word person ask, than such names?) The challenge in a
creative list, such as a list poem, is deciding what to include and what
to leave out, and how to arrange the items. But sometimes I just enjoy
the lists I stumble across in the world as found poems.