by James McKean
There is little I can do
besides stoop to pluck them
one by one from the ground,
their roots all weak links,
this hoard of Lazaruses popping up
at night, not the Heavenly Blue
so like silk handkerchiefs,
nor the Giant White so timid
in the face of the moon,
but poor relations who visit
(read the rest here)
I know that at least two of my readers went "GACK!" when they saw my poem for today. The very sight of bindweed makes them clench their teeth and snarl.
It would take a poem about graffiti, or logging roads in the wilderness, or abortion clinic protesters to get that same reaction out of me.
And it makes me wonder if one of the jobs of a poet is to take us gently by the chin and turn our head and make us look -- really look -- at the things that most repulse us. It is their job to show us it's not really that bad after all...or else that it's worse than we ever could have imagined.
The round up this week is at Becky's Book Reviews.