The Poet's Soliloquy

 

 

O for a Muse of Cheese, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention!
If I sang of cheese they'd pay attention.
But can my subject their attention mend?
They will not listen -- not if I mention
Things poetical. The little room verse
Occupies is grudgingly allowed. Worse
Than silence is the condescension
Of enfeebled tastes. Let me now rehearse
My new poetics: I will sing of food,
Warm beds, music, dining rooms -- no more rude
Awakenings, no message cool and terse.

How else can poets earn a laurel crown
Than celebrating what's held in renown?


 

 

© Kevin Berland, 1999

 

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