How odd, that by the rules we must respond
with something more than 'very good', 'I like that',
'try to bat on it's almost tea'.
In the strange world of prose on a postage stamp
the form is to say how we would have done it better.
Better than what?
Better than looking out of the window, perhaps
or sarcastically carping harder that the carping crowd.
I should write a manifesto, or start a movement:
make strident metaphorical announcements of the new,
the fresh, the revolution in poetics.
At least it will give me a rule to break.
If I'm feeling really silly, I might adhere to the style;
allow the adoring to think no more.
But like all wallflowers
I shall smooth my dress and smile;
and not utter,
'they might try writing poetry' -
or better still, reading it aloud -
it is allowed you know.
No perhaps not.
Nothing destroys more quickly.
It will do no good. The prosey crowd
will not change - where would they hang their beret -
and novels take so long to write.
No, it is read it once and forget.
Or like poorly programmed Hoovers sniffing away
until they run into an obstacle
and then it's 'what does quodlibet mean?'
Any excuse, not to read.