Poets are supposed to write about the pretty things.
Poets are supposed to turn around anguish in the last lines.
Poets are supposed to make life a solvable conundrum.
Poets are born to be obsessed with what only matters
From time to time.
I don't
Buy into that
At all.
No....
I know you well.
Lord of the skies.
We talk about sun and moon and stars
Like they're
Mythical.
Actually they're burning balls of gas several light years away.
We're supposed to obsess and indulge in their beauty
As if the lack of understanding
We have
For them
Somehow parallels and enriches
Our own
Misunderstandings.
Oh yes, I don't deny they're pretty.
I don't care if I go all soft when I crane my neck
Stare at Orion's Belt when I'm so drunk I am bottle-shaped.
They're great
But do they make more sense of life?
No.
Strip it down to the core, life is a chore and a bore.
It may come with a pre-packaged joy or too.
Maybe you were lucky enough to fall in
And then out of
Love.
Can't say I've been there
Can't say I was any closer to Love
Than I was to Proxima or Altair
Or any of the seven sisters, really.
But it sure was pretty,
Anyway.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem