POETRY MAKES ME UNHAPPY

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.

 

 

 

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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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