The poet on the radio
earnestly read her expert lines
about the sad state
of the world,
the failure
of governments,
churches,
parents,
lovers,
the certain decline of
the cosmos,
the end of the world.
Her lines were exquisitely made,
and I listened with admiration and envy
to perfect rhymes, subtle
metaphor, nuanced images
until I felt both elation and
despair.
Then I looked around me,
to the riot of life in
my backyard,
the shrill ecstasy of birds
the shout of the rose.
My children gathered today
for a Sunday feast, full of
laughter and my corny jokes.
Maybe the poet didn’t have a backyard,
could gazed only on bleak
city walls; maybe her lover
walked out (or should have) or
her children never call.
I worry about the poor;
whenever a grimy hand out-
stretches, I see the pierced hand of Christ,
offering me gifts, pearls of great price!
(29 April 2012)
Author's Comments:
I'm feeling guilty about dissing Adrienne Rich here... she really is a marvelous poet. If you'd like to explore her more, try this link: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/adrienne-rich
