The Labor of Poetry
A poem by Ronald Zack

The Labor of Poetry
With apologies to John Keats, Gertrude Stein, William Shakespeare, and Marianne Moore

I don’t remember if truth is beauty
or if it went the other way around.

Can a rose be something else? Or
are there always three?  Things do

tend to happen in threes.  Death,
birth, and other stuff like that, I mean.

Reading poetry is hard enough.  Making
poems is a lot like brushing your teeth

without water. Well, how do those roses
smell now? How genuine is that?

Maybe every third poem will be good or
understandable or even bearable.

And if poems are born like children
does joy arise from the pain?

Is a poem better when it hurts more
as it passes through the ring of fire?

Or should it slip out quietly and painlessly
like the morning fog

as it gently dissipates, and the sun makes
everything bright and clear?

About the Author:

Ronald Zack is a poet living in Tucson, Arizona.  His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Ekphrastic Review, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Main Street Rag, Rats Ass Review, and others.  He is studying poetry in the MFA in Creative Writing program at Mississippi University for Women.

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