Oh, To Ever Understand Thou Poetry Terms

O Poetry, poetry, wherefore art thou complex?
Tis but thy terms that are my enemy:
Thou art thyself, though not prosody.
What's prosody? It is nor hand nor foot,
Nor arm nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O be some other term!
What's in a poem? That which we call prosody
By any other name would smell as sweet;

Ugh...thee enjambment of brain cells
Thy meter of rhythm, no sense of closure
So poetry would, were it not poetry call'd,
Retain that dear insight which it oweth.

A twist [From Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, 1594]
J. DeBellis 8/31/09