Mastering Poetry

Mastering poetry isn't a joy,
Tapering from the old pains to the new:
Working things out, passing images through
Thresher-like engines of craft. As a boy
I never wanted for dons to annoy,
Gurus to pester, instructors with no clue
Waiting for me to impregnate with dew
All the implicit rhymes time will destroy.

Now I am old, and the world still awaits
Sudden fecundity, inspiring flash,
Innocent truths, but my heart turns to ash
While my insensitive friends hold debates,
Claiming their help has been what integrates
Craft with my art, two things that never clash.