Please study me.
I defend myself silently.
A teacher in front of class
Can say, “A poet defending his poem
In a poem is not a poem,”
And they, his students, will naturally agree.
While I, this poem,
Must sit, silently.
I do not defend myself!
The poet said that.
And the teacher.
I resist the autocrat.
Nonsense. A poem
Does not belong in a debate;
That’s not the poem’s purpose;
A poem in school is a poem I hate.
A poem doesn’t need to be studied,
Or examined. A poem is exactly
What it is, upon first hearing.
A clutch of trees. A small clearing.
And nothing more needs to be said,
Or explained.
If explanation follows,
Nothing is gained.
Stanzas, stanzas, I am weary of these
Contradictory voices.
Let me do what is right!
No more choices!
Only the large round moon
And the somber night.
Oh God, is that what you leave us with?
An image of the moon?
A cheap symbol?
You missed the point! You buffoon!
This is not a poem. Look.
You’ve gone too far. You’ll need a book.
You were a child. You dreamed a life.
And then you found love, a wife…