Sometimes I think I’m an idiot
And I shouldn’t be writing.
But the muse allows many types to practice.
Many kinds of people should be looked into.
My kind of poetry is the type where glass replaces skin
And you look into me. You see what a typical idiot
Thinks like and feels. It’s rather clumsy,
But I think I finally speak best when I’m clumsy,
When no veneer gets in the way,
When I try and utter some plain thoughts about what’s happening in me.
I’d rather be the other type, believe me,
An Edgar Allan Poe—but that takes study, doesn’t it?—
Without a hint of personality.
Life moves and art stands still.
As you grow, you realize
How fast life moves; girls you know have babies,
And the standing-still aspect of poetry is what you want
And so you begin to write about eternal things,
Life and death, your life and death, and so the glass goes up
And you look into the soul, your soul, and you can’t say
Nearly what you want to say and foolishly you wish you were Poe,
But that age is gone, that style is over
And the mystery is in the numbers now, no longer in one
Made-up precious thing, the wonder is in the variety
And not in the portrait all alone.
[This poem appeared many years ago in the distinguished journal Poetry East, editor Richard Jones]