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Wednesday, February 11, 2015

I wrote a poem

today in my head while reading the New Yorker:


I wrote a poem
that doesn't sing

It sits there like a log

Others sing it
when I pay them to

I wrote it hard
and pure, and sweet

It sits there like a log

on a hill
or a jar of jam

You should read the poem out loud first in the "poet's voice," then as a small child reciting doggerel. Take it to be the anti New Yorker poem.


2 comments:

Vance Maverick said...

The magazine rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.


I've read the magazine for a long time for the nonfiction....it's always a surprise to discover something good that was published there. Ashbery!

Andrew Shields said...

I recently came across this observation: on any page of the New Yorker with a poem on it, the prose on that page is probably better.

That said, the last issue I read had two pretty fine poems in it.