When I started out to post a poem a day during National Poetry Month I had no idea I would be publishing so many ars poetica. Today’s poem is another one, another musing on the art of poetry.
Today’s poem is also a personification of Poetry, poor confused and overly sensitive person that Poetry sometimes is.
When you think about all the strong emotional content (positive or negative but rarely neutral) that end up in poems, you can imagine that the whole world would be exhausting for Poetry, it it were a real person.
Poetry is a thing
outside the poet
It’s broken crockery,
shard lost in corners,
behind filmy curtains.
It has has gone missing
with those it imagines
know poetry best and
would never make it cry
Poetry makes poor choices
It wallows, whines, mewls,
screams the impossible
intelligent screams
It wants to drink itself
stupid, to numb itself
after over-sensitive
glimpses of lightning
In fact Poetry's eyes
are so messed up
it thinks broken glass
is an injured child
Poetry leaves, is lost
passes the same trash cans
the same storm drains,
again and again
Its tears fall through
the open grates,
swim toward whatever
is making those sounds
It’s that bagpiper,
practicing a march again
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