Grumble. Grumble.
"Poems must mean."
"Poems must mean?"
"We are poets."
"That we are."
"But we are not..."
"What are we not?"
"...cheap whores of words! We do not write..."
"What don't we write?"
"...cheap words for whores!"
"Ah, I see."
"Our poems must mean!"
"So you've said."
"But poems must mean!"
"You've said again."
"But poems must make their reader take their heart
and mind and soul
and shake them to their death themselves
with shock and joy and sheer insight
of words, each word a star of craft,
set by the poet, letter to letter
with intimate knowldege from the centre
of the very words themselves!
No poem can be a magic trick
of tawdry rhymes, or silly games
thrown together to amuse
for party tricks and other fuss!
A poem must make their reader quake
in awe of something more than man!"
"Ah, I see."
"You see?"
"I see."
"I see: you see, let that be that."
"Yes, but answer me: what is this poem, but cobbled words?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean to say that this poem here
has nothing grand of which you speak.
It holds no rare insight for men. It's just a silly game,

to amuse."




"Ah.


...I see."