Poetry Is Like Facing Death By Firing Squad... Poem by Mark Heathcote

Poetry is like facing death by firing squad
It's like finding your sea legs
Whilst dancing with King Canute
To a spider's waltz that always excels
In it's spinning out a velvety, yarn, tune.

Even when waves of disappointment
Drown them; they're up singing, sailing again.
Sucked under—drown like small sailboats
Toss every-which-way, you're a tragedienne
"Ah, who needs weather anchormen? "

Oh, poetry is like facing death by firing squad
Indeed it's like finding your sea legs
Whilst dancing with King Canute
It'll lead you astray in every-which-way
In a snagging rig, somersaulting, dive.

Until you die. Or learn again to breathe.

Most poets are like small vessel sailboats
Pitch and toss in every-which-way
They're skippered but their lifeboats
Seem like they're made out of lead or clay.

Their pitch and toss on a wave is like matchwood
Most like I haven't a hope or a prayer
Of ever being read or riding those high waves
We're too weak in our riggings to forbear
That stare a word from a veteran's critique.

That is until we die. Or learn again to breathe.