From the Verse Essays of Ivar Benløs: Life Will Bring Him Down to Earth, No Doubt, in Her Usual Brusque Manner, and Will Teach Him Something More Intimate to Write About

Such a simple thing, really,
Such a simple, short-lived thing.
When knowing was young,
We knew what we knew. We weren't
So sure, soon. Then we forgot.
These days we are sure again,
Sure we were wrong, on all points.

Why write a novel? Why read
A poem? So many better
Writers of novels to read,
So much temptation to write
Another lazy garden
Of weedy, less-than-diverse,
Untended quotes for a poem.

Write a novel if you can,
If you need to, if you need
The money. ("Novel" stands, here,
For whatever story form
Earns the most in your era.)
Don't write a poem. Read a poem.
Do a poet a favor.

Then, go back to your life, calm,
Filled with equanimity
The poet never attained.
Words in pretty patterns aren't
Things to subsist on, like fruit
Or vegetables or bread.
They're not even much like flowers,

Unless you're talking about
Those revolutionaries,
The undesirable weeds
That look half-pretty growing
From their loved, "well-rotted corpse."
Such a simple thing, really,
Such a simple, short-lived thing.