The other day I had a little chat
with my Poetry Muse. I just call him
P. M. for short, though he’s not short at all
“P. M., ” I said, “Why can’t I write any
new poems? Why don’t you inspire
me anymore? “
“Oh, ” he said, “Don’t worry about that.
There are no new poems to write.
All of the good poems have been written.”
“That can’t be true, ” I said. “Just look at all
the poems that are posted every day
on Poem Hunter. Hundreds of them! “
“Look at (Name Withheld) , ” I continued.
“He has posted over ten thousand
poems all by himself! “
“Yes, and all of them together are not
worth as much as a pile of buffalo chips!
As I said, there are no more GOOD poems! “
“At least with buffalo chips, you can build
a fire! All of his poems are electronic,
so you can’t even build a fire with them! “
“The trouble with N. W., ” he continued,
is that he tries to write poems in English,
and English is not his native language! “
“To him they must make perfect sense,
but to English speakers they are gibberish,
just like your feeble attempts in Portuguese! “
“Hey! ” I protested. “I thought my Portuguese
poems were really quite good! “
“My point exactly, ” he retorted.
“Give it up, Old Man, ” said P. M.
“You can struggle all through the night,
But there are no poems left to write! ”
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