Is Poetry Necessary?

Well now,
(sheepish grin)
baa even -

I notices that this little chapter has been subtitled pomes de terre...
pomes.
The first and last refuge of the gypsy soul
the restless and rebelliously non-agreeable.

I recall some years back, a music club down in a worn-heeled part of town -
where obscure musicians used to freely mix with armchair poets.
Armchair is an apt descrption.
They resembled armchairs.
(that always kind of fascinated me, actually)

I recall many a profound turn of phrase.
The phrases weren't necessarily profound.
The delivery was.

Poetry,
can cause a lot of grief.
sort of like a virus.
Once you've got it,
it can take an awful lot of medicine to get rid of it.
If you're lucky, it's just a passing phase (phrase?)
(sort of like zits, or bed-wetting)
otherwise, you're in for the long haul.

The best thing to do, is probably keep it to yourself.
Trouble is, misery loves company, so there's a pretty powerful inclination
to want to share the pain
commiserate -   

What makes for a good pome?
I haven't got the foggiest notion.
And that's the trouble -
It's just all too damned personal
(sort of like laundry on the line)
but actually, that's not it.
Laundry on the line can look rather presentable...
like sails in the wind, flying...
bright colors on a sunny windy day
so bloody domestic, it just makes ya wanna cry.

but rather - laundry before it ever makes it onstage
out on that line.
- that would be the laundry before it makes it to the washer.
Now - that IS personal !

Perhaps poetry just fits the need,
sort of like pimple cream, ozonol, milk of magnesia, bug spray, paint thinner, grease stripper -
you get the picture.

Hey.
I was once married to a hell of a poet.
The real McCoy.
It was quite an experience,
becoming the  - muse,
for that kind of scrutiny.

So here's the big question:
are poets made? or born?
On Mondays I tend to think the former...
by Friday it's the other one.

An awful long time ago, I used to browse through lyrics like a cow on steroids...
digesting to beat the band
while the milk of human understanding just flowed and glowed -
ah, I remember well the lines...

"He was starving in some deep mystery
like a man who is sure what is true"
(L. Cohen)

"I'm a pretty good cook
I'm sittin' on my groceries"
(J Mitchell)

- and I'd marvel, how do they DO that?
(I don't think they had a bloody clue)
It's just sort of like a twitch, a sleepwalk, a sneeze, a momentary convulsion , a departure from normal brainwaves -
usually brief and painless.

At this point I have to tell you, if you're suspecting that I'm working my way toward
a rational conclusion,
I hate to disappoint you - there isn't one.
It's poetry, dammit!
[gotcha!]

hey! I didn't say I wasn't writing a pome here -