Requiem

[Leanne]

Hi Jerry, thanks for the feedback. The cat line was intended as a bit of irony after "a poet cannot feed his family"... but maybe that's just my anti-cat prejudice showing through

Those who complain that poetry is dead are usually the ones who've killed it, in my experience. No, we can't do it to make a living -- but isn't that a damn shame? People pay a fortune for utterly useless gadgets to distract them from reality and t-shirts with slogans on so that they don't have to think of anything to say on their own. I don't write for poets, I write for blokes at the pub or breastfeeding mothers or kids who have nothing better to do.

As for those 2 million writers in the US... well, I tend to think that too many people consider poetry easy to write without ever having read any, and that's part of why the rest of the population thinks poetry is rubbish.

[billy]

most of my family are in the rubbish camp

[ScurryFunger]

On the day of his funeral,
fourteen mourners stood in the sun
and thought it might rain.

"It's such a bloody waste," his brother said.
"Such talent, such potential, and for what?"
"For poetry," their mother sobbed. "He thought
the world would listen. Oh, how wrong he was;
so sad. We tried to tell him." And they had.

Poetry is dead, they said. A poet cannot feed his family.
Being of no further use, he died in the spring and,
left alone with such abundance, the cat ate him.

Fourteen mourners left his bones interred
with his worthless words. By the grave,
each had carefully positioned their Hallmark platitudes,
as floral wreaths wilted in the heat.

I think you should plural 'cat'
One alone probably wouldn't bother, but if it was in a gang, then for sure they would feast on a dead master (of poetry or not)

Oh, the futility of putting a group of words down in some sort of order from your mind eh!

Too many people like me attempt poetry.
That's for sure.

[rayheinrich]

On the day of his funeral,
fourteen mourners stood in the sun
and thought it might rain.

"It's such a bloody waste," his brother said.
"Such talent, such potential, and for what?"
"For poetry," their mother sobbed. "He thought
the world would listen. Oh, how wrong he was;
so sad. We tried to tell him." And they had.

Poetry is dead, they said. A poet cannot feed his family.
Being of no further use, he died in the spring and,
left alone with such abundance, the cat ate him.

Fourteen mourners left his bones interred
with his worthless words. By the grave,
each had carefully positioned their Hallmark platitudes,
as floral wreaths wilted in the heat.

Dearest L.

While still experiencing the overwhelmingly subtle awe induced
by your intricate, beautifully designed, and well-executed
assemblage; I feel compelled to reinforce your nondelusional
and astutely allusional asservation that cats, by virtue of every
separate one of their several eminent natures, will, as you have
so eloquently elongated, not eat just anything.

High praise indeed it is to be consumed by such consummate creatures.

Poets should aspire to nothing less.

As ever,
an endeavouring devourer of your delicious design(s),
Ray

[Leanne]

Indeed, Ray, I understand that cats are fussy eaters. Poets are fussy expirers. One cannot be too careful about one's dinner, or one's becoming dinner.

[rayheinrich]

Indeed, Ray, I understand that cats are fussy eaters. Poets are fussy expirers. One cannot be too careful about one's dinner, or one's becoming dinner.

A cretinous poet from Eton
Wrote poems so unleavened, so wheaten
That a critical cat
(Well-read and all that)
Had him yeasted and kneaded and eaten

[Leanne]

A poet, deceased, late of Wapping
Would write every day without stopping
But his cat put an end
to that doggerel, friend
when she ate him with crambo for topping

[rayheinrich]

A sadistic old poet from Leeds,
Kicked a cat just to sate his vile needs.
Her name, by the way,
Was Morgan le Fay;
Now his skull is the bowl where she feeds.

[Truerenigma]

It's just not true. Anyone who watches Tom and Jerry knows the cat never catches the mouse

---

Err..cat