When kind people tell uninformed nobodies like me <br />their definition of a poem and poetry I love it, how <br />outraged they seem when discovering accounts of <br />small time events which I force on those innocently <br />wandering the sacred streets of real poetry <br /> <br />Knowing such highly gifted and perfectly informed <br />critics are there makes us feel safe, they carry the <br />banner of rules and regulations, metre, rhyme and <br />rhythm, we can all sleep easy with such Wardens as <br />custodians of literary device and charm, to sleuth a <br /> <br />Scotland Yard for us; make us follow the classical <br />poetry of Ovid and Vergil and seek to promote <br />the Italian sonnet as replicated diligently in just <br />one way; although impossible for an imbecile <br />like me to improve, I appreciate their solicitude <br /> <br />I beg them to kindly forgive my maverick effusions <br />as joie die vivre, as freedom to do my thing when <br />not translating source texts that bore, it leads me <br />down the path to literary perdition, of innovation <br />and enthusiastic improvisation, there is no hope <br /> <br />Of mending my ways while words are untethered <br />and running free in my head; I refuse to don the <br />mind-forged manacles William Blake lamented, <br />do not walk the streets to comment on suffering; <br />read little books for little people; uplift the soul<br /><br />Margaret Alice Second<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/uplift-the-soul/
