When the modern poet complains of his isolation

From normal, bourgeois society, he complains in vain.

Money, computers, banks, convenient stores, traffic, trains,

Parking lots, sidewalks, novels at beaches, or when it rains,

The isolated poet, far from these, complains. The complaint

Kills poetry, like modern painters who theorize—

But don’t know how to paint.

I took “modern” out of “modern poet.” Modernity,

In that moment, lost its hold on me.

It happened that fast.

I left Eliot where he was, insane, longing for a classical past.

Unlike Delmore Schwartz, I quit drinking.

All I had to do was change my thinking.

Of course you matter to the poet.

My love! All my poems are for you.

Here we are in Rat’s alley. May I suggest a trip to the zoo?




1 Comment

  1. tomwest2014 said,

    July 18, 2019 at 4:54 am

    Well said. An interesting read. Is complaining a modern thing? If you are writing poems today but don’t complain, are you modern?

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