Poem Handling
Poems.
People have various views
about what they might mean.
Some say they’re artistic,
like the strong smell of the paint
evaporating into the air
from the canvas,
being hung up to dry in the summer breeze.
Others say they’re a song,
like the beautiful and gentle strum
of a ukelele
on a warm beach off the coast of Hawaii.
Most students have their views on them
as if they were a letter they’re forced to read
Sent to them by Chaos.
Indecipherable,
inconceivable,
illegible.
They want to tear it apart.
The sound of ripping paper
tearing apart their ears,
familiar to their mind,
tempted to get rid of it.
They try to understand.
It’s a strange thought,
that the views of one poem
differ from person to person.
From something beautiful
and elegant
like the bubbles sparkling in a flute of champagne,
to something foreign
and strange
like a bar code without the label.