Enfent Sensible

Oh, I was an iambic babe
Who cut my teeth on rhyme
When parents read me poetry
Insisted they keep perfect time

I might have been a little late
Learning how to walk
But certainly was not delayed
In bending people’s ears with talk

Remember a librarian
Bent way over to look at me
Saying “Aren’t you a little young
To be reading Emily?”

In Junior High my teachers
Hated me because
I just would not stop asking them
What a sonnet was

It’s a good thing I never went
To University
The label of “derivative”
Would be stuck all over me

I doubtless would insisted have
To keep on making sense
Something they make unwelcome
As with all dangerous precedents

For who would pay a fortune to
Have to them explained
The verses they are reading
If no ambiguity remained

If poetry were something
Which went right to the heart
Rather than convolute itself
For passing grade from modern art?

Since now I reach that time of life
Obnoxiousness me more become
I’ll say it straight on out for you:
Modern poetry is dumb



Ana Daksina View All →

A poet is the strangest sort of soul
You in this life may e'er expect to meet
More broken even while more truly whole,
Innocently intending well, more sweet

Than any but a five year old should be
Unfit to meet a callused world's demand
Or to behave aught expediently
All grace in flight; an albatross on land

Do not the all too common error make
Do not fall into the too easy trap
Avoid the fatal egoic mistake
Imagining that poet be a sap

Powerful spirits classic and antique
Give voice when poets ope their mouths to speak

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