Poetic Patterns Bend All to Their Will
The poets put their patterns onto things,
And men, and gods. The poetry, its ends
At least, is aimed at addicts, lonely women, kings—
And poets are the enemies and friends
Of everyone at once. The supple lines
Take on the world like tentacles or arms
In wide embrace. The sonnet writer dines
With quill-like beak. He does not dwell on harms
Or benefits for creatures that he eats.
The verse disgorges patterns, thoughts, and rhymes.
He uses victims as productive treats
For prosody—for omnivorous crimes.
..The poet eats the gods and then extrudes
….Them. Truest poetry is not for prudes.