The Poem Not Written

The Poem Not Written


I once tried to write a modern poem.

It was well struck –

Plucked like the string of a harp.

Dammit, that's one old object.

If you harp on my diction,

My words will metastasize.

A modern poem should mesmerize -

A quick hit to the gut,

An ephemeral sensation.

Ephemeral sounds old, too:

The humor is there

In the strangeness of our times,

That time’s very passage

Should fall behind the prevailing tides.

My words are lusty, light, and quick -

And it’s the style to speak before I think,

And style must go before I think.