Hurrah for Herby–
Herby wasn’t such a hot student;
Herby was a dreamer.
But when the teacher asked,
“Herby, what is poetry?”
Herby said,
“It’s words that ain’t words
No more
When they’re in a pome.”
A little inelegant,
Perhaps.
But Herby had the soul of a poet.
Herby put his finger on it.
Herby, maybe, knew more than some sages,
When he said, albeit in his own way,
“Words lose their identity as such in poetry,
For poetry is a composite picture of every
beautiful living thing upon this earth
or near it.”
Not just words.
And that’s perhaps why I’m no poet
Like Herby was–
Or could have been.
My hat is off to Herby.
(In not over 7 minutes
at breakfast)
by Ray Romine Tuesday, February 1, 1944
