The prompt today asked for a “good for nothing” poem. I thought of all those things poets write about over and over again, which — to me — doesn’t mean they’re not worth writing about. Rather, aren’t we all just trying and trying to write them right?
Don’t let them tell you the moon is good for nothing. Its full, shining face used up, like any actress over 40. Don’t let them tell you that birdsong is Top 40, overplayed and boring, background din. Don’t let them tell you the rain is washed up. That the strange coziness of cloud cover, the way the petrichor freshens not just the air, but the feeling you’ve been carrying for weeks, is not something worth documenting —if not for history, then for your own hardening heart. Don’t let them tell you the flowers have been overwritten, their unexpected colours and fragile petals as common as a definite article. Don’t let them tell you every good ode to the sun has already been written. They’ve forgotten to appreciate morning, the very fact of it. How can anyone who makes light of the sun call herself a poet?