I wouldn't write you a love poem for
all the pencils in the world. I think 'cuz your soul
is a blank page of my notebook. You are
a new pair of boots that don't fit
right I don't have time to wear you
in and I prefer the ones I found at consignment,
used and traded in yes, but gosh -
they feel supergood.
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2 comments:
Okay, so this isn't relevant to your poem--which I find nice and comforting, and something about it sounds cozy on a rainy day--but:
As much as I resist and tease and fight back:
Thank you for helping me work on being less judgmental.
Also:
The Iceberg Theory
(a poem by Gerald Locklin)
all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
orpheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.
i guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn't different enough, and
it's too goddamn american.
of course a critic has to criticize;
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.
at any rate, i really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems i enjoy are those i don't have
to pretend that i'm enjoying.
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