This poetry is not my cup of tea.
An essay’s more my type of writing; prose
is what I crave, what I devour in
my spare time, what I love, as cliché as
that sounds. So I prefer to call these poems
something else, because they’re not. They’re
only my attempt to cram my too
prosaic ramblings into lines and structures.
This effort helps me force my prose to grow
into what I would like to see it be;
it forces me to think, and not just write.
But as I say, it’s not my cup of tea.
I lack the innate knack of it,
the ease, the grace with which these poets
turn a phrase, the smooth and unforced flow
which they achieve. I like my prose; I hate
the stilted lines of poetry that I
create—if “poetry” they deserve to be.
They don’t; I’ll call them something else.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem