The Interloper

Paradise of Poetry,  
a place of reverence for all.  
There I arrived,  
an intruder, an interloper,  
with no poetic craft  
in my satchel.  

I got caught—  
the poetic policing  
recognized instantly  
my lack of craft.  

Well, my appearance and diction  
were too commonplace.  

They allowed leave to remain  
for listening to a poetry competition.  
In their infinite compassion,  
they thought:  
a nitwit like myself could learn!

The poets stepped on stage,  
strode with carefully cultivated absentmindedness 
up to the dais.  

Then they took out their poems.  
(Why did it remind me of someone  
unsheathing a sword with theatrical flourish?)  
Read them in perfect rhythm—  
sounded beautiful.  
Yet, why did English sound like French?  
Oh no, did it sound like  
Spanish or Italian?

Beautiful-sounding compression,  
sweet and rhythmic—  
yet meanings were butterflies,  
fleeting throughout,  
but never in grasp.

The less I understood,  
the more I clapped.  
Spanish or Italian,  
how did it matter?  
What mattered most  
was the display of my  
finer sense of comprehension.

On my way home,  
I pondered:  
Do I need to file for divorce  
from meanings  
(how much will the attorney charge?)  
if I don't want to remain  
a poetic interloper?

Alas, being a poor man,  
I hereby submit my inability to pay for the divorce.  
Hence, my prosaic poems  
are ill-fated to go on carrying meaning.

Perhaps I shall sell my poems  
with Accessibility symbols.  
Only artistically challenged  
shall be welcome.

...Well, what happens to compression and rhythm?  
This is their reverential funeral...  
A moment of silence—  
my dear madam and sir.