1
I Hate
poems like this,
starting here
and ending there,
instantly artificial,
like an advertorial layout-
red dye #40 cherry soda,
sipped by smiling anorectic models,
their Far-East knockoffs flaunting,
their bleached hair pretending,
in an avant-garde invitation,
to subliminal limitation,
And I Hate poems that exhort to a
r plain, like some Himalaya peak,
e fine details never comprehended, only
h grasped from a safe distance.
g
i
H
And I Hate poems that describe an egg or a red balloon
in simple, medicated terms,
- doped pain killers,
killing the pain and suffering,
in a purely clinical prescription.
2
I love poems,
That rip, tear, gash, slice, pierce, sever, shear, prune, amputate and bleed,
poems that pulverize, raze, scorch,
shatter, ruin, scourge, excoriate, blister and crucify,
and through the poet’s never-ending grace,
rebuilds, rebirths, regenerates, revivifies,
resuscitates, renews,
in a metanoia flowering anew in the low winter
cooing of the sun.
-Mark Trubisky
Copyright © 2002 Yellow Brick Road Gallery. All
rights reserved in pictorial or written representation.
Revised: 01/07/06.