A Poem against writing Poetry

                 

                  My teacher has gone mad! "Make poetry," says he
                  Oh indeed that would be some real fine poetry...
                  No way Sir! You will get no poetry from me.

                 

                  Some poetry on what? A bird up in a tree?
                  If a cat ate it up, I would not hear nor see.
                  Oh sure Sir! That would be some real fine poetry.

                 

                  Or on all my homework? I'm sure that there would be
                  A yawn so high and wide it swallowed all of me...
                  No way Sir! You will get no poetry from me.

                 

                  Why I prefer coffee and beer instead of tea?
                  How I wash the dishes, the thrilling daily me?
                  Oh sure Sir! That would be some real fine poetry.

                 

                  My way to save the world, from war and misery?
                  Even if there were a way, how could I make it see?
                  No way Sir! You will get no poetry from me.

                 

                  Some people cross the ocean to write of mystery
                  What I have to write of is lying by the sea
                  Oh sure Sir! That would be some real fine poetry.

                 

                  Then how about my love, a tale of me and she?
                  My love I do think fair, but Will was there 'fore me!
                  No way Sir! You will get no poetry from me.

                 

                  To me that kind of verse is like trying to ski
                  Comes it not from within, down it goes on one knee!
                  And you see that's hardly some real fine poetry!

                 

                  Why not just write frankly, about the inner me?
                  My thoughts, hurts and feelings, my world, my laugh, my creed?
                  No way Sir! You will get no poetry from me.

                 

                  Turn myself inside out, for all the world to see?
                  Well perhaps that might be some real, fine poetry.
                  But no Sir! You will get no poetry from me.

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                  6th April 1991, Claus Piculell