The Sunday Poem: Why It Is Hard

 Posted by (Visited 5255 times)  The Sunday Poem
Jul 152007
 

We always write our verses on the green.
Extolling nature, one dull paean, then
Another, the savannah evo psych
So loves a bellwether to our brains.

We hammer home our thoughts of death, with odes
And eulogies, our writing full of black,
Of wistfulness, of melancholy. Sad,
As if mere “sad” was “deep” and “deep” was “good.”

We speak of love, the thrust, surrender, catch
Of breath, exchange of fluids, the coy glance
And longing. Each of us forgets that all
Of us know all of this. Forever. Now.

So much of writing tells us what we know.
So much of culture trades old comforts, myths
We tell ourselves to keep the strange away.
Just three great subjects, and our story’s done.

This makes it hard to write each Sunday poem.

  2 Responses to “The Sunday Poem: Why It Is Hard”

  1. Hehe. Ok, a challenge. Next Sunday do a poem on Ice Creme Cones, and do it without any insinuations of death, love, or nature. 🙂

  2. In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it’s the exact opposite – Paul Dirac

    I guess this is why it’s hard.

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