(or lack thereof…)
People say poetry is the great.
People say it's the quintessential gateway to expression and beauty.
People say a lot of things…
As I sit in a classroom much too spacious
With the gentle hum of distant birds and leaf-blowers
I sleepily glance at my fellow poets:
Each hold looks of indifference toward our professor's words.
Did they perchance already know the material?
I certainly didn't.
Despite the instruction and encouragement
The pen shakes and skitters from my direction
As ants from a magnifying glass, and
Though I produce coherent lines there is
No artistic majesty, no eloquence.
Ballads baffle me;
Syllables stupefy me;
Anaphoras annoy me; and
Villanelles vexate my notions of what
Makes a poem.
Admittedly I'm guilty of relying solely on doing
I'm selfish for instant gratification, of
In this regard, in the face of my level-headed and theatric cohorts,
Sitting behind tabletops of jet black with desire to verse, I
Am but an onlooker and
Call me impatient, call me callous;
Call me lazy, call me over-zealous;
Whatever you may say,
I am no poet.
To a man of fiction, direct and simple,
Poetry to me seems restrictive and complicated.
In this sense you could call me a simpleton.
But I know what I am and
What I am not, and poetry is not
My cup of tea.
To those who take to poetry like doves to the flock
I give you my praise.
But yours is a sky I wish not, nor dare to
Take flight upon.