Vocation (Poetry)

I didn’t choose poetry — it kind of chose me
and it wasn’t a gentle seduction,
it was forceful and rough
and I wrote purple stuff,
pretentious with death and destruction.

For better or worse, I wrestled straight verse,
persevered with full rhyme and strict metre,
whipping syllables hard,
emulating the Bard,
clipping lines til the stanzas ran neater.

Now there’s seldom much call for a pome — if at all —
old sonnets lie dead in the water,
villanelles near-extinct,
and Haiku’s on the blink,
now the Muse breeds a wild hybrid daughter.

And she’s sassy and straight to the point, doesn’t wait
but jumps in with her language unfettered,
cuts right to the bone,
carves out words all her own,
with a vision that’s seldom been bettered.

Converted, released from the cage I had made
for myself when I played being Byron,
I’ve since set myself free
and pretend I am me —
a more unpredictable siren.