Juan Pablo Mobili

                        For Sharon Olds
To write bad poems may not be an art
but it deserves to become something
you don’t take lightly nor leave
to the mercy of the moment.
I’m considering that embracing my failures
should be a daily practice, good for the soul
and, hopefully, a way to keep the mind from attempting
another coup d’etat on my happiness.
Who knows? It might even prevent the quaratining
of my imagination. In other words,
let us write crap if we have to, let’s alleviate the bottleneck
that may keep our good work from honking like a madman,
motor running, at a standstill.
Bad poems often are hard work that must be done,
and what would the option be, to save yourself for later?
Don’t you rake the leaves to help the blooming?
I believe that a colony of weasels deserves as much love
as an eagles’ convocation, and a parliament of owls
is not safer than a leap of leopards. If the point is
to avoid danger, I urge us to fall back in love with words
and stand firm on hard weather, with the pride
of an obstinacy of buffaloes.
The heft of a good poem may depend on our thin legs.