I am not Pablo Neruda,
which may be a statement of the obvious
but it helps me to explain why
I am less than poetic
about a lemon
or the streets of Castille, which
I have
neither walked upon nor seen.
I’m not Billy Collins either
so I’ve never really given thought
to the many reasons
it’s best not to have a gun
or considered the blindness of mice,
although (to be completely honest)
I have
beaten to death one or two poems in my time.
And yet ... here again,
with even more of my words
arranged in lines of varying lengths,
with the stress on some syllables
rather than others
and with an almost total disregard of rhyme
I have,
it seems, not abandoned hope entirely.
No comments:
Post a Comment