“Upon the velvet sinking, linking fancy unto fancy” —The Raven
Poetry has no impact, we think, at least Romantic poems
Which slow down breathing. Reading the internet on Iran,
They are mocking Trump for spelling “Strait of Hormuz”
“Straight,” contesting his Chinese oil figures. What have I done?
A great theme for a great poem presented itself to my mind
And I wasted my entire time following a throng
Of imbeciles debating—a mood opposite to my contemplated song.
But sometimes the appreciation
Of ours requires we visit a different nation.
Now I understand poetry, and its space
A little better: first I need peace,
And with peace inside that peace, grace,
In eastern clothes, whispering tales of the east.
It helps to know Iran—what I see:
Not ignorance, but weaponized ignorance,
All the sides holding forth ignorantly,
While the (left wing? right wing?) oligarch gets away.
Khomeini was murdering Iranian prime ministers
Long before 1979. No one talks about these murders.
I turn to my poem at last; its theme
As fresh as ever; a poem does not decay,
And neither does its dream. It
Thrives in the poem, and today
I take my theme out, and give it a look
(To look at it means I write it)
Standing by the bay. Poetry versus shit.
I thought I wasn’t in the mood
For a poem. A theme keeps. Even the rude
Semblance of it is the strongest token
Of what will be said. It will never be broken.
The oil will be flying through the strait.
I don’t care if I miss the debate.
Accept it. No one cares what you say—
Or that I turn away.