I should have been contented with squeezing out
neat verses from jumbled, random thoughts,
with fashioning stanzas pretending profundity,
and with dashing off lines of serious lyrical nonsense.
I should have been detached and insulated
from pedestrian dalliances with the raw jubilations
and searing sorrows of the all-too-familiar souls.
I should have taken to heart the art of being aloof
to the stirrings of the mind about what to you
are such artless triflings with good and evil,
with justice and inequity, with ethics in politics.
Then I would have been to you a true poet,
your cold comrade at the shrine of your stoic art
of the brain, not of the heart.. but I'm the unpoetic.
.
Categories:
triflings, on writing and wordsart,
Form: Free verse
it would have been so easy to squeeze out
neat verses from jumbled random thoughts,
or fashion stanzas pretending profundity,
or dash off lines of serious
lyrical nonsense
had I taken to heart the presumed propriety
to be aloof, numb to the muffled stirrings
of the mind over artless triflings
with good and evil, justice,
ethics or politics,
had I been detached and insulated
from pedestrian dalliances
with the raw jubilations
and searing sorrows of
too familiar souls,
and I would have been to you a true poet,
your cold comrade at the shrine
of a stoic art of the brain,
not of the heart...but I'm
the unpoetic.
Categories:
triflings, art, imagination, introspection, philosophy,
Form: Free verse