by Alter Esselin
I'm in love with poetry and its beauty.
Immortal is the word of the true poet
And along with Keats I believe it's my duty
To infuse beauty and truth into every sonnet.
But I can tell whenever the agile, fine
Pen of the poet starts deviating
Even slightly from the straight line,
As well as when his sharp knife in creating
Cuts deep and blood overflows the site
Of a well crafted stanza. Oh, then, how his chest
Will swell--poetic truth must excite
Like the ripe beauty of a woman's breast.
But when the soft lies start to flow -
Lies that sound so sweet and fair,
I send them flying out the window
To mingle with the dust in the air.
Last updated June 30, 2015