The Poet Laments His Lack of Wit

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.

2 thoughts on “The Poet Laments His Lack of Wit

  1. 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.

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