On Being Keats And Millay

Three Stanzas

When you look disgusted

At a man

You destroy him surely

As you can.

Nothing's like the things

The way they were

There's just a small resemblance

Through a blur.

Movies from the 40s

Make me cry.

Also music. Never

Say goodbye.

 

A String Of Beads

I make jokes.

They get stewed.

I'm a person.

They're tattooed.

The country with

The biggest heart

Wants to blow

The world apart.

Music died

With poetry.

The devil gets

No sympathy.

For Eastern wars

The Yankee cares.

Europe minds

Its own affairs.

The Publisher

He told me he would publish me.

It's my opinion that

My gratitude was much too mild.

(I'm simply not expressive.)

Anyway he didn't write

Again. I wrote him twice.

That's how close I came
To being famous.

 

A Theory Of Prosody

There are no rules in poetry

But rhythm, rhyme and euphony.

You don't learn prosody in school.

You find it in your heart.

Every single rule,

Which pedants can't impart,

Not even Keats,

And certainly not Pound.

One other thought completes

The theory I propose.

Just express your talent.

Other laws confound.

And so it goes.

Someone I Don't Know

She talks in cliches.

Perhaps she feels

Clever and poetic.

She never did anything

Nice in her life.

She does as an emetic.

Transformation

A little guy dropped his keys in Denny's,

Stooped and mumbled “shit!”

A bruiser who was one with god

Walked over and barked, “You!

Watch your mouth in public places.”
The little guy went insane.

He hit and kicked and wildly swung.

The bruiser was surprised,

Staggered but fell. The little guy

Kept kicking him. The ones

In Denny's ran and pulled him off,

So unsuspecting they

To see an old and silly man

Turn into a villain.

Two Stanzas

I never had a mother.

I thought there was a god.

I just gave up Keats.

He was very odd.

The heart is poetry.

What it seems to say

Is simply life and feeling -

Sappho and Millay.

On Being Keats & Millay

I'd rather be Keats

But I have to be me.

That's all I can give

To poesy

Honestly.

I'm not Millay

Who was poignant with sleep,

Posing with blossoms,

Poetic and deep.
“Recuerdo” I'll keep.

Moments of truth

That cut the heart

With a tender blade

Or a human dart,

Though no tears start.