THE WOULD-BE POET
(This is one of a series of my earliest & most popular posts. This was originally published July, 2012. As always, all the cartoons are new.)
I’m telling you quite honestly
I’d love to write fine poetry.
I’d show such versatility
that everyone would honor me.
The words would come forth trippingly
as if they had a melody.
I’d write of plants; of rose and tree.
I’d be a big celebrity!
I’d write of kings and royalty
and I’d discuss humanity.
I’d write of love so wistfully,
of sadness and of joie de vie
And I would do this masterfully.
I’d lecture universally.
I’d do this work unselfishly
(though I’d accept gratuities).
So let me add, in summary,
I’d gain much popularity.
My poems loved so zealously
that publishers would say to me,
“Write more!” They’d beg me fervently
for poems to fill their glossaries.
They’d organize parades; you’d see
me waving at fans jauntily.
The crowds, no longer orderly,
would clamor with intensity.
The President would say, pleadingly,
“Our Poet Laureate you have to be!”
I would decline, quite modestly.
This could become insanity.
I’d have to write incessantly,
If I were to act accordingly.
There would be no more time for me
to sit and daydream lazily.
I’d be pressured overwhelmingly
to keep up this activity.
I’d hear “Please write!” repeatedly
‘til writer’s cramp took hold of me.
My brain would start to atrophy.
No one would want to be with me.
My friends, is this my destiny?
Why, in this great democracy,
Should talent push relentlessly
and rob me of my dignity?
And so I ask you, tearfully,
is that the way it has to be
If I could write as beautifully
as I had wished for previously?
My literary wizardry
might just attack me fatally!
I’ve thought this thing out carefully
and realize the absurdity
Of living my life tragically
if I could write great poetry.
With apologies to humankind,
I fear that someday I would find
My nerves all tangled in a bind
which I, (poor soul) could not unwind,