Iambi, 203

                                I’m not exactly from poverty, or from obscurity,
but I think it’s okay for me to complain.

                                Some people treat the right, or the ability
to make, or to talk about, poetry

                                as a matter of being born in the right place,
or as some kind of laying on of hands.

                                Just because your town is known for tragedies,
they’ll tell you that’s what you must write,

                                as if creating superheroes, or love songs,
were like not minding the store.

But you’re not a peon
                                for liking what you like. Stop keeping score.

You don’t need the gods’ permission
                                to mix things that have never mixed before.

As for the ones who want purity,
                                they think they’re being delicate,

but really they’re passing up delicacies
                                on unfamiliar trees,

and climbing up withered and tall ones to pluck famine food.
                                No wonder they’re in a bad mood.