A View

Keats

How could he write poems

About things that do not matter

To him or to the public?

Painting gods that don't exist.

“Stout Cortez” - But was he stout?
It wasn't even him.

Though when I die, no single word

Will matter anyway.

Where is the reality?

There is none in Keats.

A welcome mat to madness!

The beautiful is real.

Imaginary poets

Fall asleep and dream.

That is magic.

They may not awake.

The beautiful and true

In merely human terms,

Offer something

Which can be forgotten.

Yet I have a craving to write poems

That don't pertain to anything at all.

A View

I define poesy

Just as it comes,

A lilt if it has it,

Occasional rhyme -

What is occurring in me.

Emotional images give me a lift,

But cannot be coaxed from my brain.

They come with the writing.

And phrases go deep -

What is phraseology?
Thus the extent of my prosody.

Though musical language is sweet,

I lack the command and a knowledge of words

To make it my bailiwick.

But oh for a period – how many years? -

Most of my poems were angry.

A pleasure to write but a horror to read.

How could I stop being pissed?

When will the anger relent,

And the Muses forgive?