The Poetry Worskhop

I won't say your poetry is good,
It never is.
Look at mine,
But do not compare my crab apples with your lush oranges.
The juice on your shirt is yours, the stain yours
and the sweet taste of life is dripping from your sore lips.
Smile and be proud.

I can't say that your poetry grates,
It doesn't.
But my stuff,
Flogged and compared with Frost, Hardy and lush Thomas,
Their juice on my words, my words do stain them,
And their sweet sounds are just as gripping as their wild lives.
Yet I stand proud.

I just say that our poetry lives,
Yes it does,
Theirs, yours, mine.
Just be as cruel as frost, hard as crab apples,
And burst all your life, again and again
Because sweet truth does not go gentle in the good night.
You must love yourselves.

Nik Habermel, July 1995