PS Cottier

Death to all poetry gardens!

In my garden I grow hebetude
just near the wistfulsteria.
The nodding fields of dilligafs
raise two-petal fingers,
yellowed with gorgeous nicotine.
(They hate the word roseate,
beloved of neat poetry gardeners.)

Then the rose ate the budgie,
and westringia strangled the cat.

P.S.Cottier

Looks a tad roseate to me

I’ve become heartily sick of a certain type of Very Nice Poem which moves too easily between description of nature as a mere pretty thing and the poet’s (often fairly tedious) personal reflections.  Doesn’t mean I won’t write one again, but I will slap myself with a tulip as I do so.

In June I will be attempting to write a poem a day at another site; more on that soon. I’ll also keep posting at least once a week here.  So now I’m off to tend the worm-poem farm, to help with the fervid compostition.

Next week: Less puns.