Poetry attempts portrayal; it paints—
In ordered forms—our terror, loves, our dreams.
Its synaesthetic mode swirls sense, acquaints
Our sight, sound, touch, smell, taste with textured whims.
“I did but prompt the age.” “Death be not proud.”
”How do I love thee?” “I sing the body electric.”
“The sound of blue.” Thus writers shout aloud
Kaleidoscopic images—slick tricks!
Real life’s a fuddled crawl, much more mundane
Than scenes that raptured poetry project—
It’s what to cook for dinner, dodging pain,
Drying dishes, doing laundry, inspect
The roof for leaks, take pills to fend off pox,
Enjoy a bagel spread with cream cheese, lox.
Set out the next morn’s clothes—two unholed sox.
At each day’s end, clean out the litter box,
Marvin Klotz (3/7/12)