I am a poet poets love. They rave about
my fine command of meter and my subtle
hand at rhyming: not for me the chime of dove
and heavens up above, oh no! My line
will not be crammed with filler words; it’s so
enjambed that punctuation takes the place
of thes and ands and empty space. Oh yes,
I write in light and grace, a poet’s poet, form
or free, the DNA of poetry. I stamp my code
on open minds and on they go; I’m left behind,
a residue, perhaps a scum, no froth remaining,
just a drum that keeps the beat in murky holes.
I lurk and beg, please cast your eye across
my page; alas, the spirit of the age
is not my own. A poet’s love may bring me joy,
but poets love the dead too well; to spread,
we need the hoi polloi, the snap and sharp
of instant sell. I fear my ticket’s set too low:
I cannot beat the status quo. If poets
are to be my bread, I’ll take their crumbs.
At least they’ve read.
my fine command of meter and my subtle
hand at rhyming: not for me the chime of dove
and heavens up above, oh no! My line
will not be crammed with filler words; it’s so
enjambed that punctuation takes the place
of thes and ands and empty space. Oh yes,
I write in light and grace, a poet’s poet, form
or free, the DNA of poetry. I stamp my code
on open minds and on they go; I’m left behind,
a residue, perhaps a scum, no froth remaining,
just a drum that keeps the beat in murky holes.
I lurk and beg, please cast your eye across
my page; alas, the spirit of the age
is not my own. A poet’s love may bring me joy,
but poets love the dead too well; to spread,
we need the hoi polloi, the snap and sharp
of instant sell. I fear my ticket’s set too low:
I cannot beat the status quo. If poets
are to be my bread, I’ll take their crumbs.
At least they’ve read.
It could be worse