Why is it
So often
I read what is supposedly a great poem
And think
I don't get it
Is it me?
Taste
It's a matter of taste
You'll argue but never convince me
I'm not right
It's an unfortunate condition
To feel so sure for no apparent reason
Disorientating I can tell you
Continually frustrating
Sometimes embarrassing
If you're so clever
They'll say
How come you've not done any better?
I have though
I'm just not aware of it yet
No-one is
But it's there
In a parallel universe
I'd wave to it
If I knew whereabouts
Roughly
It was
To start
Should my lines be regular?
Should I rhyme with spatula?
Or maybe better stamina?
Or wander vaguely like a looney
Through unchartered unofficial poetry territory
In a way that is most
Irregular?
I think I like irregular better
Even if it is passé and I'm sure it is
That way
As they say
Passé
Why can't I be a poet?
I've certainly got the obligatory temperament
I'm tragic, miserable, odd
Confrontational, outspoken
Often deeply sad
And then full of joy for no logical reason
I'm extreme
And none of this on purpose
Or because I want to be the life and soul of anybody's anything
So why can't I run around in long cloaks
Burn midnight mazda bulbs for a living
Tear my heart out for a few well-chosen stanzas
That's poetry-speak
Why can't I find that
My chosen path
My calling?
It's pretentious, useless, stupid
Then it should suit me
Like a cloak
Right down to the ground
© Rachel Fox 2005
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