Poetry is Dead

I’m waxing poetic tonight,

(at any rate, enough to call it “waxing,”)

And thinking poetical thoughts

Like “ghastly,” “gaze,” and “damsel”

In various combinations.

And “crickets,” who oft are found

Chirping (quite poetically, of course)

In poems, when the moon is waxing.

Regarding Stupid Poetry:

The ‘clever’ poems—those whose lines agree

In measure and in sound—are thought to be

Exceptionally pleasing; as for me,

I find they hold a certain quality

Of mathematical simplicity…

For any fool with paper, pen, and time

Can put together strings of words that rhyme.

No better is the ‘poet’ who seeks to

break every conceivable literary Convention including,

but not, limited To capitalization punctuation and? coherence In short to write a paragraph in prose and divide

the

words Totally at random

Yet more insecure than those who strive

To prove their ‘creativity’

Are those of passionate artistic bend

Who think themselves enlightened,

Scorning all who fail to comprehend

The depth of their intelligence.

Then there are the few, the very few,

Driven not by motives such as these:

To prove themselves unique, clever, or rebellious,

But just to write.

To write.

For no one

But themselves.

Those are the true writers.

Those are the writers

Who never

Get published.