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.
PS Cottier 