Poetry… Sometimes, Why Try?
Form, always form; from BA in English lit
(Whatever good that will do)
To most holy MFA (O, sanctifico)
Unless you have these, you’re nothing,
Unworthy, unglorified, uninteresting
Might as well let your words decompose
On the floor, where they belong.
I am no artisan, or so I’ve been told.
Disenchanted with my attempt
He slashed a monstrous
Crimson “F” across the page
With pithy, witty comment:
“Not rhyme, no reason,
Not poetry, no grade.”
Without these blessings, I’m not qualified
Precocious puppy, troubled with paper-training,
Doing what I do, not comprehending inky stains
What terrible fuss seems to arise, that I dare
Let instinct take over, allow words to flow
Not knowing such behavior is frowned upon
In terrible, august, learned company.
And so, disillusioned, he sternly gazed
Upon my gift, what I had wrought
Grimaced with greatest displeasure
Mocked shameful work of Man in His name
In disdain, He turned His face
Rejecting blasphemy, cast all into Darkness.