Poem 338

There’s something about this I really like … it’s kind of odd and funny, sending up the image of poets and their specialness, juxtaposing the numinous and the banally domestic …

( last line borrowed from Keats’ La Belle Dame Sans Merci … )

The Poets

Where are the poets?
              what are they doing?
      singing songs
                                     clapping hands
riding horses in through the sea door
their houses have broken in the middle
        from dry rot
they are a cold and clamorous tribe
working through a secret smoke code
                 putting up shelving on the hillside

                 where no birds sing