You really have to lift your game, I say to my poems:
pull the finger out, push the envelope, think outside the box;
you’ve been resting on your laurels too long.
Other poets are doing amazing things with words,
smashing them together like neutrons in a Hadron Collider.
Get this: ‘these widowed months’, ‘the dents of highway laughs’,
and my favourite: ‘the soul is a runway for anything willing to fly’.
Whew! they say. Is that all you can say? I say.
Will you try a little harder? I say to my poems. Come on, guys.
For the Home Team. They look a little hesitant, abashed.
I don’t know, they say. It’s just not us.
We’ve been through this before. Okay, okay , I say. I’m sorry.
Just be yourselves. Just occasionally, Huh? Would it hurt?
They look at me. Give me the thumbs up.
Then I play them Slowly Slowly’s ‘Jellyfish’ as a stimulant.
They light up, move to the music.There’s hope for them yet.
* quotes from Bob Whiteside’s blog: naïve haircuts