The Appearance of Poems
It looks like a poem
at this distance, sure,
but it looks like
a poem with a bad haircut,
given by someone in the midst
of an epileptic fit.
Some poems look like
they’re on the Burma Railway diet,
so thin as to be hardly
skin and bone.
And the words!
The words
have dark shadows
under their eyes,
and put a chill in your heart.
Crack a bloody joke, son!
I guess some poems
look blockish
at this distance,
like a brick
thrown at the page,
pretending to be,
maybe trying
to be, a window
into some other world,
a wardrobe into Narnia.
But I can’t read a brick,
I won’t, I refuse to read
a brick, or a wardrobe
with strange curling
scrawls of wood grain
all across its locked doors,
like the writing
of ancient aliens
on some forbidden planet.
They look like poems
at this distance, sure,
but don’t judge a book
by its cover,
or a poem by its appearance.
What the bloody hell
is a poem anyway?
