I’m reading fellow poets’ blogs today,
A sustaining source of entertainment;
I admire their style without exciting comment
Or resorting to an unkind eye, simple though
It is to sigh about uneasy affirmation.
I hope when they read me (if they ever do)
They rest as easy on my lack of finished form,
The hazy, blasé spending of poetic wealth,
My failure to blend rhythm in truculent beat,
Metre that barely measures a couple of feet,
Rhyme that slips awkward between sheets
Stillborn short of a healthy couplet.
But I’ll still try to write, nonetheless,
A poem that outlasts us all.
If I didn’t believe in the poetry in me
I’d have neither nothing to write about
Nor the will to try – nor would they either.