I hate being a poet…and by hate, I mean love.
And by love, I mean only, that I am compelled,
I hate that I can’t write about Israel,
or sunsets and daisies, or in the voice of Sophocles.
I hate that I still write best in the language of a teenager
full of angst−− and by best,
I mean, I’m most satisfied.
I hate that I write poems to you
and that I write poems about writing poems.
more than imagery
crowd the page, panting.
That I forget that moods aren’t facts.
I hate the need −− the greed for words. I hate that I tend
to complicate with forced routine.
I hate that I’m readable and relatable and I hate that I just presumed that.
I hate that I’m confessional. I hate that I’m not more academic,
scholarly, referential, clever, or elusive.
I hate that that’s a fact. I hate that I worry
I’m meant to write not poems but rather drivel in a diary
and that I want to
wring the little neck of Philomel.
Most of all, I hate that I sling words like hate and words like love around.
I hate that the evidence is in.