The Poet Laments His Lack of Wit
by rjosephhoffmann
I think in epithet
And deadly rhyme.
I think I simply do it
To save time.
I do not ever say
“I love you so.”
I say, in Auden’s way,
“It’s sad to go.”
I see your face before me
And I cry,
Quelle peine! Nécessité!
How love doth die!
I have no subtlety
That’s truly mine.
What I call poetry
Is others’ rhyme.
I thieve the threads
Of poets who are better;
I tear them into shreds
Or add a letter.
I think in epithet
And deadly rhyme.
I think I simply do it
To save time.
I don’t bother to rhyme
Which saves even more time
You make tradegy, witty, with brief rhyme. I love rhyme – balance and pleasing onomatopoeically. It seems natural. It must be something taoist in me. It’s sad.