April 15, 2011

NaPoWriMo Day 14: Diagnosis for the Makers

Yesterday’s poem seems to have left me in a rhyming mood. I might end up with a sonnet or two before the month is over. This isn’t one.

Diagnosis for the Makers

Shelley was a cad.
Clare went mad.
Thomas drank, and so
did E.A. Poe.
Dickinson was a loner,
and Coleridge a stoner.
Villon went to jail.
Keats was frail.
Wordsworth was a bore;
Williams, a whore.
Shakespeare was greedy,
Plath too needy,
Millay tempestuous,
Byron incestuous,
Jeffers a hater,
and Pound a traitor.
Sketchy, all, in soul, heart or head
as I or you. But they’re dead;
what they carved from such rotten wood
lasts, and is good.


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