Poetry is like facing death by firing squad
It's like finding your sea legs
Whilst dancing with King Canute
To a spider's waltz that always excels
In it's spinning out a velvety, yarn, tune.
Even when waves of disappointment
Drown them; they're up singing, sailing again.
Sucked under—drown like small sailboats
Toss every-which-way, you're a tragedienne
"Ah, who needs weather anchormen? "
Oh, poetry is like facing death by firing squad
Indeed it's like finding your sea legs
Whilst dancing with King Canute
It'll lead you astray in every-which-way
In a snagging rig, somersaulting, dive.
Until you die. Or learn again to breathe.
Most poets are like small vessel sailboats
Pitch and toss in every-which-way
They're skippered but their lifeboats
Seem like they're made out of lead or clay.
Their pitch and toss on a wave is like matchwood
Most like I haven't a hope or a prayer
Of ever being read or riding those high waves
We're too weak in our riggings to forbear
That stare a word from a veteran's critique.
That is until we die. Or learn again to breathe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem