It's a 'discovered' form

 

“I believe any poem can go in a number of valuable and productive directions (What did you do today? What could you have done?).  So a poem is never fixed, per se, only rendered memorable in a discovered form” – Jack Elliott Myers

 

Born in Lynn, MA on this date in 1941, Myers had a distinguished career as a writer and teacher.  From 1993 until his death in 2009, Myers published 9 books of and about poetry, taught at 6 universities, directed the creative writing program at SMU, and served as Poet Laureate for the state of Texas.   For Saturday’s Poem (from Poetry) here is Myers’,

 

                                   It’s Not My Cup Of Tea

                                             My wife wants to know

                                             what difference does it make

                                             what cup I drink from

                                             and I complain,

                                             I like what I like

                                             and that’s the story.

 

                                             We have many kinds of cups.

                                             But this morning my favorite is dirty

                                             and I’m hunting for something

                                             that won’t make me think.

 

                                             One’s a fertility goddess,

                                             huge fructuous belly, little head.

 

                                             Another’s pleasant enough for guests

                                             but has to have its finicky little saucer,

                                             underneath so it won’t feel embarrassed.

 

                                             And another, which is a smaller version

                                             of what I like, would require me

                                             to get up and down too many times.

 

                                             You think I am spoiled

                                             or too set in my ways

                                             or that I’m difficult

                                             to live with,

                                             and you’re right.

 

                                             But there are so few things

                                             that fit me in this life

                                             I can count them in one hand,

                                             things the spirit can sleep in

                                                because whoever made them

                                             put the things of this world –

                                             vanity, greed, a sentimental wish

                                             to be small again – aside.