It is better for all involved,
Especially those, for whom, at length,
We pretended to have loved,
That right now, seeing it cannot be good,
We stop this charade of poetry altogether.
If it cannot be good, it is better
That it not be done.
Why gather around a small light and say it is the sun?
It is obvious it cannot get any better.
The evidence is in the attenuated pleasure
Which attends black marks which we call
Poetry, so that an anecdote cheerfully made
About the poem takes us into the light
And the poem itself is nothing
But the darkest possible prose showing off inside thick shade.
If the anecdote (my father and I went to Italy)
Is better than the poem, in every case,
Why does the poem show its face?
Why does the poem have to happen?
Because of the gaudy line of long tradition?
Or does poetry—as you call it—bring—how do you say it—fruition?
But what if, by that very tradition which apparently causes you to sigh,
This isn’t poetry? It is the crowds. It is the Italian sky.
We might be surrounded by the other arts;
Natural scenery, or this room,
Which can be put inside a frame,
And writing on that photograph—
Look! A photograph—you can put your name.
This might be art. But do you think it’s the same
When you name your father, or name
The district in Italy, where you took
The time to browse. Did you learn to cook?
Or this might be of interest—name the bank
Where you withdrew funds that day.
You could be Pound, and the adventures of a crank.
It’s poetry. We’ll listen. We’re in the audience. Go ahead and say
Whatever it is that’s supposed to be poetry.
Somewhere, someone is painting right now,
Learning how paint might invoke
Fate—the criticism of each brushstroke,
The afternoon light dying; in the group of people sitting next to me, someone spoke
Of just another day like this, the shadow
Covering all. The reading is over. Should I socialize? Or go?