Image result for valley forge in painting

Poetry overpowers the weak—

So they will never read poetry again.

Poetry even kills poetry when poetry attempts to speak

In a valley with eleven hundred starving men,

And the wind starts up, to make even worse the snow,

Now flying sideways, the world with no place to go.

Poetry isn’t needed here, so you better be quiet,

Or bring out this menacing guy, if you don’t want a riot.

The poetry in this gun will not fire,

The poetry you loaded onto the bus

Will get old before it gets to where it’s going,

And at some bus stop, by a drug store, will sigh, and retire.

The poems like a trumpet you heard in books which roar

Like the sound of Tennyson don’t roar anymore.

Remove your wind-breaker, get wet, scream, implore.

That’s not poetry. Maybe blood will do it.  Or a pricier store.

So much poetry is lying around,

In casual speech, in the accidental sound

Of overheard music and trains.

Your poetry in the sun will never compete

With what this imbecile smells when it rains.





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