“Goodness gracious me!
Are you writing poetry?”
“Yes ma’am, I am. I enjoy it, I really do,
Every now and then, writing a line or two.”
“Another poet! Oh dear! The world will be ruined, I fear.
But of all places, why are you writing here?”
“I’m just awaiting my turn, I have the flu;
So tell me, what’s ailing you?”
“My mind’s in a spin and I have an aching head,
And it’s all because of some poems I read.
You poets are wicked, you really are,
Your poetry seems so simple from afar,
But if one actually tries to interpret what you’ve said,
The only reward is an aching head!”
“I’m so sorry to hear that; if you’d like, I can explain
The art of reading poetry without feeling any pain.
See, if you understand the entire poem, then that’s very good;
You’ve actually done better than the poet thought you would.
But if you understand only parts, or nothing at all,
Don’t fret or cry, or bang your head against the wall.
If it makes no sense to you, it’s probably written for another,
So to critically inspect, dissect or bisect it, don’t bother,
Just treat it like mail which you’ve opened by accident;
For a poem will always make sense to those for whom it is meant.”
The lady sighed, and rubbed her head,
“I’ll think about what you’ve told me,” she said,
“But then, I wonder where THAT POET must be,
Who writes poems that are meant for me!”