Poetry

Poetry is elusive. It plays cloak and dagger games letting you believe you know something only to twist you around in the next line.
In "Musee des Beaux Arts" by W. H. Auden. He plays at the fact that all of us with our busy lives miss out on all the amazing wonders that surround us in are day lives and at the pains that we must bare by ourselves. Because everyone else is to busy with out own tasks. Like the plowman in the painting Landscape with the fall of Icarus. Yet there is more than just that runs and hides.
Also In "Before the Mirror" by John Updike. He taunts the younger generation of days gone by and refreshes memories for the people of his time by remembering a time when a painting said "Enter here and abandon perconception." Like it bets you to continue on with an open mind to all that will come. Yet he seems to morn the lose of days past and how this age old painting mocks the lines that time has draw upon his face and how it still keeps its youth after all this time.
Poetry is elusive and can never give me a clean answer or a simple truth it seems. That is why I dislike it.