I guess I could make poetry that sings,
Poetry that brings
Joy upon the linnet’s wings,
But I am full of sighs and sadness,
And cannot bring my readers gladness.
I would rather write,
As I like awake in the middle of the night:
There is no outside world,
There is only a room, a hall;
Easy to navigate this;
In your imagination, the kiss
You desire, find all
Behind a door,
The one idea. Don’t look for more.
What can we do about the clouds,
The wrecks at sea—that brought Europe all her poverty?
What, do the clouds really cover
The moon, and further, the sun?
Is my burning, passionate lover
Gone? Are they just anyone?
The dream was there, with her eyes on me.
Now I’m left with nothing but this poetry.
How can we stop the train wrecks
That kill innocent commuters,
The poems lost forever
By the errant computers?
What can we do about cloudiness?
There was a thought in my brain
And now it’s gone, like a melted cloud;
My thought was dazzling and loud;
Bright as it was, I cannot bring it back again.
When I find my thoughts, it is me running after me.
Behind that cloud was you.
What can we do about the clouds? Nothing.
This nothing the nothing of the sky, empty and blue.
Her? I would be a lover to her
If I were furry, I were—
But lacking fur I am not—
I only stir fur in the plot,
I put whir in the fur of my plot,
I hunt fur, I eat fur in a hurry;
I am naked, bare, not loved, not furry.
Her? She loves the cat,
Its keen eyes and its soft fur.
When I ask if she will love me,
Oh! She will often defer.
I think she loves the cat
Most for its soft soft fur.
I do not know why, exactly,
But I do know I love her.
I wish I were soft like the cat
and had that amount of fur
That when I asked her, “love?”
She would look at me lovingly and purr.
I guess I could make poetry,
Poetry that makes poetry
Joy upon the linnet’s wings.
