If I wanted to be a poet
How could I not write a Gimmick
Some versical form of a Limmerick
That others would read and then show it
To strangers they met in the park.
I could pretend to be Sufi
Maybe I’d be Pakistani
Some imams Westernized granny
Making my Art simply goofy
And spin as I wrote in the dark.
Wait! I’d just fill up the book
Clog up the pages with verses
Each entry striving for worstest,
Nonsense abounding, reason forsook,
Believing I’m hitting the mark.
In a frenzy I’d write ever faster
Perched on my doghouse like Snoopy
I’d insert punctuation quite loopy
The Bardess would glimpse when I paster
A clangorous image quite stark.
Poets, it seems, can see in the dark.
While artists want plenty of light
In order to augment their sight
As they paint in plein air in the park
Poets see clearly the spark in the dark,
And clearly the absence of light.