At the poetry fair verbiage fills the air
as I sample each poet’s concoction:
haiku-rich canapes, free-form salads, parfaits
of thick verse, sonnets baked to perfection.
Wine of symbol and sound, liqueur lyrics abound
I’m becoming an addict of diction,
till I stumble around very drunk on profound
poems that make my head spin in confusion.
But wait, here is a booth of poetic uncouth
Out of place at this fair, my objection.
Then I look at the name and find mine is the same
it’s my very own poetry section.
So where are the trays and the tasty displays
piping hot and fresh-baked for consumption?
As I’ve wandered this fair I have gained, tasting there,
a keen palate of discrimination.
Here all fridge-tainted, cold, cliche-ridden and old,
bland and lacking in wise introspection.
Now to retain my space in this prestigious place
I’d best spend some more time in the kitchen.
© 2004 by V. Nesdoly
First published in Calendar – 2004
Every April, as I celebrate National Poetry Month by reading more poetry than usual, I ask myself- what am I doing here? There are so many great poets walking this earth, writing books and posting on blogs and poetry websites. I really don’t belong here…
I’m not sure how much writing more poetry makes one a better poet. There is a sense in which I think one’s style, subject matter, density, word choice, musicality etc. are a matter of personal makeup. But I spend time in the kitchen nonetheless, because I like to poem, whatever the result.
Linked at One Shot Wednesday – Week 41