Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.” I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”
Happy Boxing Day!
If I don’t stop complaining about what passes for “spring” in the American Midwest, I will start sounding like a broken record. But maybe the poems can avoid that fate more easily than the prose. Let’s see.
TO SPRING IN ILLINOIS, 1975
It’s April now, but you would never know
To see the stubborn falling of the snow.
Except to show that Winter has its nerve,
I do not see what purpose it could serve,
This cruel encroachment on the rights of Spring.
In Georgia, we would never let the thing
Get near this far. There, as in Camelot,
The Winter never stays where it should not.
But here it doesn’t have the sense to know
When its welcome’s gone, and it should go.
Remember: for more poetry like this, go to https://www.createspace.com/3562314 and order Stars Through the Clouds!