Except

I barfed off and on last night

but my heart wasn’t in it.

If you are going to barf —

‘barf’ is a much nicer word than ‘vomit’ –

you’ve got to be committed,

not lackadaisical

like the time I went to the doctor

for anti-depressants and was refused

because ‘you are not depressed enough’.

I can’t give myself wholeheartedly

to anything, it seems.

‘Except your writing’,

my ex told me.

‘Except your writing’.

I Have a Problem with Mary Oliver

I have a problem with Mary Oliver.

Much as I like her

and I do have a book of hers

all of her poems after a while

seem the same.

It may seem harsh but it’s a judgment

people could make of my poems

or, for that matter, any one’s poems.

Each poet has a voice, just as each singer has,

each artist, and that voice inhabits each of their poems.

You can recognize a Billy Collins poem,

a Charles Simic poem, a Lewis Carrol poem,

or, for that matter, a Shakespeare or Ben Jonson poem.

Each poem within a poet’s work is, of course, different,

but the song, to use Led Zeppelin phrase, remains the same.

There is no way out of it. No way around it.

Maybe familiarity does breed contempt.

But many of us find comfort in familiarity too,

Swings and Roundabouts.