Image result for hypnotized dancers in renaissance painting

Poetry makes me unhappy.

It makes me not me.

It’s easy to imagine and say

Night lives in the beautiful day.

Like a hypnotist, poetry can tell

Me I’m sleeping, and things are not well,

And I should remain sleeping

And in my imagination end all horror and end all weeping.

I’m happy after the poem is done;

I slept beneath a sleeping sun.

I danced—and the people saw

The poem and its poet are a law

Unto themselves. I still dance.

I still love. I still laugh. In a trance.





1 Comment

  1. May 11, 2017 at 10:30 pm

    I never read poetry; can’t stand the stuff!
    And who could blame me?
    The bad ones make me gnash my teeth
    And the good ones only shame me.

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