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.