I am trying hard to be objective
today, keeping my feelings on a
tight lease, averting eyes from
poetic pieces which were surely
designed to drive me to despair.
Why would a poet write or expect
others to be excited by something
as numbly mundane? Is there a naive
explanation available, elucidating in
simple terms, aiding understanding?
I thought it might be because I am Australian –
that is I thought I was until I read some verse,
by crikey, that had me cringe; where the idiom
was right the impression was
uncomfortably Machiavellian.
I like clever poets, users of words – the
poseurs I tend to meet in the pages I peruse
are made so much less odious by finding a
gem of literary magnificence, penned by
an unknown genius, every now and then.
In the vernacular of this Land, bugger
it – I’ll have to sustain myself with a liberal
dose of post traumatic erudition until
someone posts something to get my
literary juices flowing again...
© 27 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
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