"In a poem
these things have no place,"
He said.
"These things have no place in a poem.
Pink, cliche of love, belongs
only in romantic and teenage tosh.
We'll have no colour pink in our poems."

"Sausages,"
he said,
"Sausages, food of comedians and fools,
have no place in a poem
(though perhaps in a limerick
or pedestrian dialect ode?)
but sausages are no
serious subject of poetry."

"In a poem,
let there be no blood.
If you must write of war
speak in clinical tones.
But best to ignore war
in these civilised time
And it is best to avoid blood in a poem"

"Free verse," he said
"Free verse is NOT verse
and has no place in this class.
Stick to the classical forms
of sonnet and rhyme.
Iambic pentameter was good enough
for likes of the bard
and is best for us now
to use in a poem."

My mind drifts to Iraq
and I watch a tired soldier lad,
the age of my son
with a blood sodden bandage
and blood matted hair
eat sausages straight from the pan
He thinks of home
and his mother.
And the backdrop of
grey smoke winds into the winter sky
which is pink shot with gold.
Can there be no poetry in this?

21 March 03

09/14/2004

Posted on 09/14/2004
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