In Melville Village, grammarians abound,
Where being right is a thing profound;
In this neighborhood, the novelists live,
And vegetarians to Democrats give,
And grocery awnings are foreign flags.
The silken elite from oceans away—
Where palms and balconies surround a bay—
Have banded together to banish the gray,
And every prejudice, in the U.S.A.
But that’s political talk for another day.
Before my poem took this fictional turn,
Setting the scene for a boring plot—
I spent a week on your novel. Thanks a lot—
Certain grammarians were coming around
Telling me poetry is grammar as sound.
I thought poetry was love beneath the moon,
Not grammar, but the grammarian himself, in a swoon.
Imagery? White spaces? Grammar only gets in their way.
But remember old poetry which eased off the tongue?
And soothed old passion, and made her feel young?
Grammar is fluency; fluency is joy, and joy loves to play
Agreeable notes and songs, all day.
The harmony of the tune
Is more important than the moon.
Fluent in English, English is only the English I say.
I don’t have to pause, and look in a book;
I have Mozart’s ear. I have Michelangelo’s look.
Poets are grammarians—fluency in poetry is the sound
Of grammar. Don’t tell them that. But that is profound.