Randburg Harriers Road Race

The road rose up to meet…
(Is that a blessing at all?)
Well, on the mountain, our feet
did up from heaven haul.

The syrupy hills kept turning,
the tar did backwards tug
but, hearts and lungs burning,
we onward, upward dug.

Breathlessly we lamented
’til, after a lengthy while,
the harrying road relented
for a single treacherous mile.

Then up it loomed again!
And hot the sun did shine.
Our minds and legs did strain
to picture the finish line.

Spurred on, we did ascend,
the mountain lost its fire,
we fought it to the end
and won the runner’s desire.

And now with slopes behind
knowing they did not smother
our hopes, we are inclined
to sign up for another.

Poetry should propound

What really
is the use
of stanzas that seduce
with a guise of meaning, but are actually obtuse?

They promise direction
but upon closer inspection
are mere self-exploration,
requiring the poet’s explanation,
which is generally withheld, sustaining the obfuscation.

Poetry should propound, not confound.
be accessible, not unintelligible.

I like poetry to be…
for gleeful linguistic discovery
of things of verity,
for profundity and perspicuity,
perhaps armed with a dictionary, to expand the vocabulary.

I think it should propound; it should not confound.

I prefer when poets avoid emotive words devoid of substance.
(This is just a preference,
like a penchant for rhyme.
But on that one, I’m
still working on my patience.)