What is it that a poem’s supposed to do?
More, surely, than display the poet’s wit,
Project the pain of poets’ pious rue,
Or plump the bulky texts for English lit.
Those quirky forms—sestinas, villanelles—
Hurl hefty gauntlets. challenge brain lobe cells.
Pantoums and tankas, tercets and rondels,
Engirdled verse, slim, trim, sexy as hell!
But formal traits—the rhyme and style and beat,
The images, and metaphors, and shtick—
Are, finally, an uncooked meal, raw meat,
Poets’ pride displayed—plain narcissistic.
I’ll tell you what a poem’s supposed to do;
Dredge out our muddled minds, focus blurred view.
Poems shape our mist, mould spirit into fact—
Exploding stars that change the way we act.
(4/21/12)