| [This
business of poetry writing: It really begins to disgust me, Lord Byron] |
| Classical poetry (which this isn't, quite),
allows the poet to address another, deceased poet in his work |
|
| Invocation of the muse by the
poet, as required by classical tradition: |
|
| Yo, Muse! |
| Pull up a stool |
| as I whine and complain |
| 'bout the life of a poet, |
| what it's done to my brain! |
|
| Tradition having been satisfied,
the reader is presented with the plague-ridden body of the poem which has the poet
lamenting his sorry state, self inflicted, most likely. (Readers, be forwarned that lamenting
is poet-speak for some really sickening whining and complaining) |
|
| Lately |
| I've begun to abhor |
| writing poems about love |
| rolling oceans and war |
| and I write of drunk poets |
| who crawl home into bed |
| and those other muse droppings |
| that will litter my head! |
|
| My poetical symbols |
| are beginning to stink |
| that's because I've been using |
| all the same ones I think: |
| my metaphores threadbare |
| similes rotten within |
| my thinking's got thicker |
| my writing's gone thin! |
| I have used and reused them |
| oh so countless a time |
| that my picture will grace |
| Greenpeace magazine's cover |
| as recycling's best ever poster
child! |
|
| Lately, |
| I've discovered |
| (quite sober at that) |
| this detesting contempt |
| for my feet and my meters |
| that I cram down the throats |
| of my innocent readers |
| my dactilyc dimeter |
| would bore toddlers stuffed |
| and iambic pentameter |
