Poets make awful acrobats.
Good at barely moving
Idle musing has impaired
Their sense of balance.
Once the horizon tilts
Everything begins to slide:
Cups and saucers, trees,
Buildings, spirit-levels.
Out of touch with the ground
They are out of touch with themselves.
Struggling to make sense of air
They become entangled with it.
The roll of drums:
A few floppy cartwheels
A crumpled somersault
Then up on to the high wire…
After the first falter, the fall.
It is faultless. The safety-net
Holds out its arms. The poet
misses.
(Gravity hangs its head in shame.)
***
Poets have a way with language
A certain jauntiness with hats
They can make a decent curry
And are very fond of cats
Though some are closet fascists
In the main they’re democrats
But all things being considered
Poets make awful acrobats.