It happens every time I read works by members of the Academy of American Poets.

Can't You People Call Yourselves Something Else?

The poets came. I invited them in. Then I
Suffered. They're really a loathsome bunch:
Axe grinders, babblers, hot-house avant-gardists,
I gritted my teeth as they read what they'd
Written. Not one of them heard any music
In words, nor did any of them understand
That they'd shamed me. They blinked at me
Stupidly, clearly offended, when I said,
I'd like you to leave.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-03-23 at 20:30

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