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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.


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.