Poetry is a great mystery to me. It's one of those things that I think I should be interested in more than I actually am interested. I wish I could say I'm deeply moved by it (or at least that I enjoy it). Yet on those infrequent occasions that I read poetry, it tends to bore me. And on the still more infrequent occasions that I try to write any myself, it comes out comical, like a limerick, instead of being profound or insightful or even serious. Example:
A Modest Man's Lament
When I am gone, my fellow man
With charity will cry
That such a good man, such a saint, did not deserve to die.
The eulogy will be quite grand.
Of this I have no doubt.
Every fault will be forgot, each virtue will sing out.
I think what gives me greatest pain,
In these my final days,
Is knowing that I’ll not be there to listen to the praise.
My friends will mourn me and lament.
No foe will dare oppose.
And secretly they’ll all be glad it’s me, not them, that goes.
I'm sure this must indicate some major character flaw (or intellectual weakness at the very least), but I will leave that analysis to someone with greater discernment than I possess.
I agree with your thoughts about poetry - in fact, I have trouble understanding most poems. Well, there was a little humor in your latest attempt. And, how did we ever get along without the computer? Technological advances are daunting at times but you and I seem to be trying to keep up, thanks to our children!
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