Poems About Poetry

OK, so this isn't exclusively about poetry, but I think it fits here:

Libraries

With a collapsible history they hush about you
To deride the failings of a many,
Pluming from infinite poisons the darkness of quiet,
The impossible lightness of shelves.

There are endless pages. Still the world waits.

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

Quick improv:

The gnome with the black hat in the library
has fallen asleep on a open book of Chaucer
and her nose is pressed on the page
underlining the word 'quaynte'
quaintly as a middle English expletive, she snoring faintly.

...like a jazz saxaphonist with a sense of humour.

so, i was thinking about poems about poetry and remembered a neat poem I had read a while back, where the poem itself was the subject of the poem. I can't remember the name of the poem, the author of the poem or exactly how the poem goes...i just basically remember the concept. so, borrowing the concept, I wrote my own. if anyone knows the poem that inspired this, let me know and/or post it! anywho, here is mine:

Fine Poem

But don't fall in love with it,
it don't love you
nor does it seek approval.
It may not even desire to be read,
fine poem that it is.
I haven't even read it.
I certainly didn't create it.
It just always was, somewhere, somehow,
these symbols, phonetics, sounds.
This poem breathes like you.
Don't take it for granted;
don't sideswipe or jabberjaw it.
Never talk down to it, coddle it, or inflame it.
Refrain from molesting it, double-crossing it, or swindling it.
Please do not read meaning into it,
or commit it to memory,
or hold it dear,
or be passionate about it.
This poem is indifferent to ages and canons.
It is not an effigy, an elegy, a eulogy or doggerel.
It is not an affront, an attack, a lambaste or tripe.
It has no lineage or pedigree.
It is not a Citizen of Time
or Maker of Dreams.
It may sneak up upon you.
The smarmy bastard might scare you!
Please do not scare it back,
for it is not a game-player, a sooth-sayer or a tickler.
It does not purport to reveal higher truths, transcendent concepts, or philosophy du jour.
'Tis no masterpiece, opus, swan song, cartouche, milieu, cartouche, flambe, frieze, or chocolate.
It hates being referred to as High Concept, avante garde, and Neo-Objectivist.
It is not a soapbox for the grandiosely absurd.
This poem has no moral standing
or rhythmic preference;
It is not capable of caring about your day.
But if you tilt your head in close, friend,
closer to the paper, the page, the pulp,
if you tilt your head in close
and hold your breath right tight
you might just hear it's heartbeat
like sunbeams dancing off water.
It's a fine poem, alright,
but don't fall in love with it.

in my poem "Fine Poem" I certainly did not intend to repeat the word 'cartouche'...please disregard the first appearance of the word.