The Elf Prince of Morning vs. The Poetry Anthology
Poetry anthology,
the sheer amount of language you contain
confounds me
Your words are centipedes
circumnavigating
the 20th century
Anthology, I get lost
in your cavernous hallways
I was born too late
to attend the coteries
you sponsor
I have only vague
associations with
the:
-modernist
(a once-new tennis shoe with a still-shiny reflector stripe)
-futurist
(wipe the fog off your looking glasses)
-surrealist
(inviting retreats
founded on instability)
-symbolist
(I can not excavate you
from the symbols you have
attached yourself to)
-the late romantic
(has no idea how dead he is)
-decadents
(at least have the decency
to decay)
-the masters of fine arts
(write rejection letters
in art nouveau typeface)
-post-moderns
(plant banners over
eroding institutions)
-the self
(surrenders, surreptitiously)
-the poet chases
flickers of light
at the edge
of understanding
Anthology, I like you best when you let
your avant-garde down
when you address
what's abstract
directly
when your line breaks
nature
into rhythmic parts
When you subvert commercial speech
and create your own language
when your fanciful ideas
point to places
even more fantastic
Anthology, I am but a feather
in the forest of your pages
Anthology you hold so many poems
surely you can afford to
hold just one more?
