Vox Populi
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Doug Anderson: Because Poetry
Has become of such little use to you
Has no meaning outside its tribe
Has been supplanted by music lyrics
for most of the population
who might otherwise be reading it
Cannot compete with electronic noise
because its sounds are too subtle
Is not included in most cultural discourse
Is perhaps seen as something quaint
like clog dancing
and therefore is not included
in a critical forum that might improve
the whole of it
(if few people read poetry fewer still read
poetry criticism)
Has been turned on
by the same academics
who once loved it
(they decode it now as an archaeologist
might fondle potshards)
Has been forced to speak only
to other poets
or students in MFA programs
And because such few meager prizes
or jobs for poets as are left
are squabbled over
and have created fear and loathing
and because this turning inward
this intermarrying
has created incomprehensible mutations
only understood by a tribe
within that tribe
Because some good poets
are like people
in rainslicks heads bowed
to the typhoon that is our world
cupping a tiny flame in their hands
against the wind
and because they pass it from one to the other
and because perhaps
like the Zunis who dance each morning
to make the sun come up
and are afraid to stop
they keep the flame alive
Copyright 2016 Doug Anderson
Vox Populi 
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What Is it with Poetry?
Every body rolls their eyes
or winces when they realize
that those short lines will ask them to
read another line or two.
Then maybe make some cute words twirl
or make their stomach want to hurl
with words so sweet your lips will stick.
Why are so many poemophobic?
When all the poet wants to do
is point out their point of view;
or maybe show things in new light
or spark your passion to ignite.
Humanity has a need to share
its hopes and dreams; not just despair.
Just try to give a poem a chance
to make you cry or want to dance.
They show you things you might not see
while being all you have to be
in this fast-paced, hyper-world
in which you find yourself whirled.
Poems may shove your face into
someone else’s harsh milieu,
or show you that your darkest fear
is not as dark as may appear.
So pull the blinds if you must
hide in verses as if in lust
and curl up with Dickinson,
Keats, Poe, Frost or Walt Whitman.
Take a short trip with your mind.
No epic novel to unwind
but one light jaunt to lift your thought;
a gift to you some poet brought.
N.N. 9/29/09
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