this page insists that i explain myself

this page insists that i explain myself

this page insists that i explain myself

This page insists that I explain myself

my poems are over-structured, I am told
but I’m only making good use of my brain

the letters I send you never say
what I want to say, but does it matter
since I write to you concerning me

I let these poems fill-in the proper forms
space is tight, rectangles
for iambs, occasionally trochees
keeping rhythm steady on its feet

but somebody says to be serious
is the way to control your poems – Frost,
Edward Thomas, Elizabeth Bishop, Graves –
always out there on the track
audiences cheering them on forever

the loneliness of the long-dictioned rhymer
dining out with novelists and critics –
consider what happens when our words
become professional – literature
forgets it’s feudal, its narrow kingdom
of palaces and prayer-wheels