SELECTION BOX:

The poet, wrongly or rightly, may write of all that´s vile,

Of society´s vomit, blood, puss, mucus & its virulent bile,

Of poverty, war, plague, disease & life´s sorry sick pain,

Nastiness, crime, deformity, man´s greed & pitiful shame.

The poetess may wax twee, on all that´s fluffy, soft, & sweet,

Romance, marriage, babies & of pretty frocks & dancing feet,

Of butterflies, rainbows, birdies & rosy petals of bridal blooms,

Of wishing-wells, oceans & fragrances beneath magnolia moons.

Maybe it´s too much of the other, perhaps not enough of the one,

Too many dark brooding clouds, or too much light from glaring sun,

Life is a mere selection box to choose from, all picked & all mixed,

And I ask, “Is it only the true Bard who gets life right & truly fixed?

A fraction of something cloyingly sweet & a tiniest atom of gore,

Just enough to make us think & yet have us wailing out for more,

A touch of colou,r besmirched with the cloud of darkest black,

Words of hope, looking forward & some to make us look back.

Poetry is not all about life´s pain & bloody sickening oozings,

It´s not all about human suffering, nor of loser´s sad boozings,

Nor is it of all that´s twee & the sugary syrup that sickenly cloys,

It´s of lonely streets & also of the tender loving of girls & boys.

There is not a poem that is perfect, nor a single word sublime,

It´s the stirring of words in the cauldron, recipes of verse divine,

It is in the mixing alchemy of it all that makes poetry what it is,

Not all beauty, not all foul, enough of each, to make rhyme fizz.