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for William Logan
Poetry is not a medium for painting,
Yet I see poets painting all the time.
“Let’s make a poem a painting! Let’s not rhyme!”
And we wonder why poetry is failing.
A novelist is great when he knows about whaling?
A firefighter, an expert on Rome?
Is the poet a world traveler
With a collection of maps, who just stays at home?
The poet is allowed any number of trades,
But here’s the point: how is a poem made?
I’ve seen poets plunder the dictionary
For the rarest colors—to paint a picture no one can see.
We have the color of the sky—breathtaking!
And look, the color of the sea—my heart is aching!
But now the poet has forgotten what to say.
The picture he was painting got in the way.
And while the sunset is crazily igniting,
The poet doesn’t talk. He’s dryly writing.
He believes his painting is learned and profound.
He guards the museum. He doesn’t make a sound.
