We Poets
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O we poets are poor creatures:
Scratching around amidst life's ruins;
For Time's worn out, discarded details,
Like that famed scavenger: Rauschenberg.
We try to sow seeds of deep longing
And nurture them with the sun and rain
Of our labours. Yet seldom are
We likely to reap a rich harvest.
Sometimes we may strike tainted gold,
If we're lucky, and discover
Curious, resonant things; which
Glimmer with the faintest of lights.
We have no gods or idols to serve;
Only our troubled, nagging visions.
And our vague hints and guesses at form
Are often mocked by smirking critics:
O we poets are poor creatures:
Fluttering around on the margins.
Yet the world would be somewhat lost
And so much the poorer without us.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş