I cannot understand
what you’re trying to say.
I wish you’d rid your poems
of fluff, obscure allusions
and weird alliterative sequences
and write in simple
sentences. Better yet, I wish
you’d give up poetry altogether
and start writing prose.
I don’t get why
you must say, the son of perdition
spitefully looks down at us,
chastising us with
his furious wrath
when a simple, the sun
shines brightly
will do. What do you aim
to achieve with
superfluous expressions
and bizarre similes,
some of which,
I struggle to understand?
The sinister soothsayer serves his
insipid liquid in a container,
you say,
and I wonder if you’re referring
to some evil doctor who
takes sick pleasure in torturing
his patients with a cure
which doesn’t work,
or if you’re hinting at the
shady, bearded chaiwala
outside selling poor quality tea.
I’ll end by saying, poetry is the
language of dreams; visions
the stars have that they transmit
to mortals who struggle to
contain and express them,
and I want no part of
imaginative madness or
manic crescendos
or creative juices
addling the mind until one
is jumping, talking in tongues
like a Pentecostal pastor,
or monstrous segues from
radical thought-counter thought
to religious obsession resulting in
feverish Biblical symbolism.
I’ll stick to tea and biscuits,
and reading the newspaper,
thank you.
Photo by ÉMILE SÉGUIN ✳️✳️✳️ on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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