Cassandra at the Open Mic
Apollo is the one
who placed this curse on me.
We all know how much fun
Apollo is! The one
with sickness-arrows? Sun-
stroke? Visions? Poetry?
Apollo is the one
who placed this curse on me.
I’m doomed to live in hope,
then watch it drown. In spite
of each draft’s horror-scope,
I’m doomed to live in hope.
(Not faith. What helps me cope
is doubt I’ve got things right.)
I’m doomed to live in hope,
then watch it drown in spite.
No one wants to hear
this stuff, I’ve got to say.
Not even I, I fear.
No. One wants to hear
of beauty, love, good cheer—
what chases blues away!
No one wants to hear
this stuff I’ve got to say.
I need an audience
to share my verses’ weight.
The burden’s too immense.
I need an audience
for this experience
that none appreciate.
I need an audience
to share my verses. (Wait!)
Rondelet-ed Reaction
On a Californian’s first day in Italy
I thought it was
some techno-racket, loud and long.
I thought it was
the power lines that made that buzz.
A tree’s crescendo proved me wrong.
“No way! Is that cicada song?”
I thought. (It was!)
I laughed, surprised
to meet celebrities, unplanned.
I laughed, surprised
to learn the din I’d so despised
for half a day had been the grand
poetic mascots, heard firsthand.
I laughed. (Surprised?)
I’d never heard
those bards before. That’s my excuse.
I’d never heard
their song. I’d only been assured
it’s stirring. (The description’s loose;
just what it stirs—contempt, abuse—
I’d never heard.)
Forgive, O dear
first poets, my uncultured yawn.
Forgive, O dear
cicadas. We are kin, it’s clear:
when I’ve been droning on and on,
folks wish I, too, were off and gone.
Forgive. (Oh, dear.)