I know that no one voluntarily reads poetry any more. I get it. The new blog page features a nifty running count of page views. See it down there in the bottom left hand corner? It even has a little graph confirming my suspicions that on my best day have I readers in the low dozens. Poetry will make it flat line. But I’m a glutton for punishment, so here goes anyway.
Nobody Writes Poetry About August
Oh sure, gush about your May mornings,
your dazzling June, even your soggy April.
Haul out your Roget’s for September ripening grain,
October umber and amber, November crisp air.
Let crystal December dazzle your eyes,
and wallow in some January bleak mid-winter.
Maybe if it weren’t for lovers February, short and wretched,
might fare worse—who can rhyme it anyway?
But who writes paeans and odes to August?
Long days have lost their charm amid the swelter,
birds gasp on telephone wires,
stray cats dance on asphalt,
sweating lovers can’t be bothered,
children crank and whine,
strangers snap like match sticks
and fill each other full of holes,
the fucking lawn needs mowing—again.
Write about that, you damn poets.
Go ahead—I dare you.