Poetry

About

Some poetry came up to me and said to take a look.

I thought "okay, I'm not busy today" as I calmly opened the book.

I thought what I might see inside would give me inspiration

and help me understand the world, my life, my generation.

I read some lines from "Introduction: Why I Wrote This Stuff"

and thought "this is a bit long-winded; perhaps I've had enough."

I skipped ahead to Poem 1, "The Day That Everyone Died"

and thought "Aha! Now here we'll find something with substance inside."

Instead it was a long and curious combination of words --

something about... mountains and cars and highways and beaches and birds --

with no particular context to give me a workable clue

why any of this should matter too much to me, the author, or you.

"Hey poetry!" I said at last, "Please tell me where to read

something relevant in your pages -- that's really all I need..

Everyone says you're really great, I'd hate to be a bore

when someone asks me how you were and I begin to snore."

"Try chapter 3 page 91, 'A Sonnet to My Heart' --

that one's a classic, so I'm told; It's deep and tragic and art.

It took five semioticians to hold it, and two more to take it apart."

Arty indeed the sonnet was, just as advertised --

with power and passion and majesty, and a bag of chips besides;

aswirl with flavors bittersweet, aromas gritty and deep

(just like the coffee I had to fix to keep from falling asleep).

I guess this means I'm cynical. Should I apologize

when words that humble millions are a jumble in my eyes?

When thought seem disconnected instead of powerful and true,

I gotta call it like I see it -- wouldn't you?

The poetry looked hesitant and thoughtfully scratched its chin

It started to speak a couple of times, unsure of how to begin.

At last, it breathed a tiny sigh, and said with a small grin:

"It's just like Armstrong used to say, in the era of Big Band:

Of jazz, he said 'if you have to ask, you ain't never gonna understand.'"

The poetry gave me a pat on the head and solemnly shook my hand.

"Hey poetry! Come back to me! I thought you had something to say!"

But as easily as it came to me, it quietly slipped away.