Get over it

See, hear, the versifier's wares,
Craftily constructed dangerous lairs.
Wherein is found a poisoned key
To twist and open you and me


They feel and they articulate
And hope by words to consummate
A union hatched in darkest past
When meaning first on soul was scratched


Connoiseurs of anguished pain
Archivists of love and gain
When passions, joy or despair, burn
It is to wordsmiths that we turn


What moves we wrap in rhyme and meter
As though life's chaos would look neater.
Dismiss it all with one calm rule:
'Get over it nostalgic fool'.


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I have a love-hate-incomprehension relationship with verse and poetry (mostly incomprehension).  As John Cleese said, if you've got something to say just say it. At the same time I cannot deny its power and it's practically universal existence (interesting question - will intelligent extra-terrestrial life have the equivalent of poetry and music).  Perhaps it is more the poet (including myself in the loosest sense of the word) than the poetry itself that I struggle with.  Do I really want to know about or even care about how deeply they feel for this or that?  I suppose it is only when I wish that I'd said it because it says what I think about something (or what I wished I did think if only I was a better, kinder, more understanding human being).