THE MUSTARD
It’s not like I hate all poets
that would be overstating the case
but replace ‘hate’ with
‘don’t have much time for’
and we’d be getting closer to
the truth of the matter. But
then I really should replace
the hasty and ill-considered ‘poets’
with ‘the poems poets write’
so as to avoid
the personal aspect (I’m sure
most poets are very nice
people in the same way
I’m a very nice people, plus
some poets I know
are my very dear friends) and
let’s replace “all” with “nearly all”
but one can be too conditional
to the point of watering things down
to the point of pointlessness
but anyway
too much of nowaday’s poetry
is so boring or so unreadable
or so unenjoyable or
what’s worse all of the above.
And who will be the first to own
to having published a book
almost nobody will ever read
with a publisher almost nobody
has ever heard of but it looks
impressive on their academic resumé
or has done their ego the world
of good? (Incidentally,
I am writing this
after disappearing a bottle of
cheap white wine; who would guess?)
This morning I read poems by
Marianne Moore and Elizabeth Bishop’s
memoir of Marianne Moore
then some poems by Elizabeth Bishop
and boy! those are hard acts to follow
and we have a hell of a lot
to live up to. Frankly, we’re (and I
include myself in this) pretty much
most of the time
not cutting the mustard.