Poetry is dead he said
as he stared at me
and munched at his McMuffin.
(There is bread stuck in
between his teeth
and a spot of yoke upon his nose
and I suppose that I should tell him,
but instead gaze into those blazing eyes
as he fills my head with nothing.)
He pontifies as he nibbles fries
(his ego all a-glowing):
You folk up north should not utter forth
of things you are unknowing.
I find absurd you think the written word
is art in rhyme and meter,
hah (!) and if a girl can write sufficient prose,
well, I have yet to greet her.
I don’t give a damn about these poetry slams
(nor do I, I interjected)
where drunken folk mumble poetic jokes
(He shakes his head and stops for breath now)
(I speak I speak I speak!)
Ah sir (say I) we can’t let it die,
‘twas once all literature was poetry;
remember Gilgamesh and Beowulf,
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.
(I suppose so, he says as he texts nothing words…)
I add: Poetry is like a fine red wine,
so much better slowly sipped and savoured,
for poetry read once and rushed,
why, you miss its subtleties and flavours.
That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard (he says)
like all poets you are pretentious.
And if I’ve offended you, well that is what I do;
I have no problem being contentious!
The fool he gloats as he grabs his coat
and with a Harrumph then off he goes,
with bread stuck ‘tween his stupid teeth
and egg running down his nose.
Karin at Real Toads writes: The prompt, should you choose to accept it, is to write something inspired by a breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, coffee, snack eaten out, at the local diner, cafe, restaurant, fast food joint, even, if you wish, camp site.
I mean this prompt to be as broad as a glass door held open by a very polite person--(you will note that in my own politeness, I make no reference to tall stacks, wideness, and hips.) You should feel free to write from the perspective of diner, server, cook, table, plate, pancake. If you want to write with a forked tongue, in other words, go ahead! If you want to just go sit in a cafe and write whatever comes to mind, that's okay too. (Just, maybe, smear some ketchup on your screen.)
And so dear Karin – the above is my offering. Y’know, although I (attempt to) write poetry, I do not consider myself a poet - strange maybe, but so am I… Poets are those wonderful people who write wonderful things, masters of words. So for me to write as if I was a poet – well maybe I am developing an ego…
Also entered at Poets United – with many thanks to the lovely Mary.
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons