'Let me count the ways' wrote Elizabeth Barrett Browning
But my ways refuse to be counted. My brain can't think like that. My pen won't write like that.
Lord Byron wrote: 'She walks in beauty, like the night' -- and women swooned.
Poetry is like French. It sounds pretty coming out of someone else's mouth. It pours out of someone else's pen. But not mine.
Metaphors as yummy as pettifor and language that would be swarmed by bees make poetry challenging to understand. Most of it sails passed my ears and over my head.