In Praise of Books of Poetry
My beloved books sit
Huddled on shelves - shelves and shelves -
Thick spines thin spines snazzy spines bedraggled spines
Finger-worn with years of turning pages
From school days and formal tuition.
Or glossy new, recently acquired
Slim and shiny from fellow poets
Who share their words on stage or internet
Many - like me – self-published - unchallenged.
From these books so diverse
Poetry pours eloquently.
The light, the deep, the funny, the sad.
Easy reading on the whole.
But poems of rigid structure
From prior disciplines
Are worth the time and effort
To enjoy their elegance
Provoking beauty and thought
Out of metre and rhyme.
Poets like humour too.
They can be sly.
Like a fly in the butter
I admire a word whose position can
Confound the sense of syntax plan
And leave a phrase
On its fine sound preening
Quite ambiguous as to is meaning.
Poetry thrills me, the linking of minds.
But - ah me – ah me -
My work is mute - unread - unsung – unnoticed.
I need some guts!
Plain old Nordic/Celtic stone bashing!
See, here, World! I want to be noticed.
And a hundred years from now!
I don't lack insight – sensitivity – skill -
ambition – arrogance -
I could really use an agent.