I don't believe in poetry.
It's a slant that wavers
around different patches
of sky, or mud chucked
on slats of a sty, or it
could be the pig, or the
plane, farmer or pilot,
pork-chop industrialist, air-
traffic controller. The one
thing it isn't is itself.
To say poetry is poetry
is a rank offence, post-
misdemeanor, sub-felony,
the sort of sin credulous
people pray against. Pigs
you can believe in, & sties.
Planes you can believe in, & skies.
I don't believe in poetry.
1 comment:
I like this one! The way it raises questions such as process vs product vs author, the spiritual (sky) vs the earthy (pig) - and "a slant that wavers" seems to me a pretty sublime image! The context poetry takes place in and thus challenges (a world of credulous sin-afear'd people, where sin is to talk funny, not to say a=a). I also like the vehement unreasonability of its protest: one wonders about what could have been said to the poet to which this is his tardy, annoyed "esprit de l'escalier" response. That said, I personally really do believe in poetry!
PS For the poet as pig, see "Le Porc" by Paul Claudel: it's not a recent reference ...
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