I Know Art When I See It

For a while now, I've been wondering if I just don't like poetry, or if I've only been finding bad examples of it. After popping over to Rox Populi this morning, I now know that yes, I've only been seeing bad examples, lately.

Purgatory

by Maxine Kumin

And suppose the darlings get to Mantua,

suppose they cheat the crypt, what next? Begin

with him, unshaven. Though not, I grant you, a

displeasing cockerel, there's egg yolk on his chin.

His seedy robe's aflap, he's got the rheum.

Poor dear, the cooking lard has smoked her eye.

Another Montague is in the womb

although the first babe's bottom's not yet dry.

She scrolls a weekly letter to her Nurse

who dares to send a smock through Balthasar,

and once a month, his father posts a purse.

News from Verona? Always news of war.

Such sour years it takes to right this wrong!

The fifth act runs unconscionably long.

Posted in celebration of National Poetry Month.

When I finished reading this, I realized I'd been sighing the whole time.

P.S. - no, I don't mean that your poetry is bad, silly.