John Gower Shooting the World

The bearded gent’s bow is drawn,
And the arrow’s tip touches
The sphere itself already,

A pin to pop a balloon
Made of earth, air, and water
In tripartite compartments,

The red and blue clouds, green grass,
And crinkled lines of blue waves
Completely separated.

Allegorical image
For an allegorical
Writer—allegorical

But perverse. Is the poet
Intending to pierce the world
Or make a trophy of it,

Perhaps dress it like a deer
And serve the world for dinner?
The sphere just floats in the air,

Immensely simplified thing
Painted like a painted ball.
The absurdity’s the charm.

Poetry can’t shoot the world,
And his world is already
So caricatured, insight

Into it would mean nothing
Much about any real world,
But maybe that’s the whole point.

The didactic writer aims
At a toy too close to miss,
A crudely patterned model,

Always, and knows it, and pulls
Back on the bow anyway,
Since knowing is only play.