To a Poet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If, in walks on poesy’s paths, you see
a hinterland that’s clogged with tangles, which you’ll
unravel, don’t push past brambles, blackthorn or more
matter that pricks. Stop at the edge of the flush
and eye the easy; that you trust. Start there -

a rhyming couplet, even upstart epigrams
or free verse, provided the latter’s not cluttered
with hearts or plodding prose hauled from thickets
guised as rosy growth. There’re spikes enough
without bristling, falling for the first fair you spy,

as you’ll notice above. But do I care?
Blank verse can be a bore. It flops along
its footed way, all iambs when I am not
hooked on stresses for ‘if’ or ‘be’ or ‘that.’
First learn the rules, we’re told, before you find

a way to rebel. I’m not so sure it’s true.
A briar or three will leave you bloodied, sure,
but bloody iambs will get you down at last.
Rebel as you will. It’s your verse, after all.
For me, it’s always buggeruppance time.