Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The 'P' Word

I understand how poetry got its bad name.
After reading some of those literary journals
I was going to send my writing to,
I understand how the ‘p’ word could evoke
the sound of gagging, or even the throwing of oneself down on to the floor
like a rabid dog.
I read a poem entitled “Trees.”
After reading the poem,
I don’t have a clue what the author was talking about.
“Fractured stumps and bowels and boughs and limbs
and fallen crowns”.
It’s a tree God dammit!
How hard is it to talk about a tree?
But it wasn’t just that poem,
it was all the poems in the journal.
It was like having a seven-course meal
where every course was the cheese plate.
Yes, it’s rich
and smooth and creamy,
but it’s CHEESE.
How much cheese can one person eat
and still button their pants?
If this is what fine art is supposed to be,
then give me a Crayola.
When I read something
I want to feel it.
Not lean back and digest it like Port wine,
commenting on it with analytical detachment:
“A bit more color here.”
“To verbose there.”
“But look at the use of symbolism.”
Please.
These poems leave me cold,
cold as the frigid wind
that blew south across the whiskers of my
dog,
while he
lay
curled up
debating the angels
of architecture.