This Is Just to Say

Idaresay

"So," I started, "what do you think of this poem by William Carlos Williams?"
"Is that a poem," blurted a homo sapien in black shirt.
"Yes, Einstein. It 'sounds' like a poem, so it must be a poem!" blurted Marie Curie.
"But it just looks like a note posted on the fridge by some insensitive swine who loves plums!" said the Neanderthal man in row three.
"People, this is poetry. Heller! As in 'ambiguous' bala! Hidden meaning! Heller," reacted a member of the Federation.
"Liza Minelli is right,class," said I. "Welcome to the world of poetry, where nothing is what it seems."
"Miss, this William...Carlos...Whatever, what is his point? I just can't dig him."
"Oh, you poor thing, you! You haven't even encountered e.e. cummings yet. Anyway, what is your reading of this silly-looking stuff:

I have eaten
the plums

that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
They were delicious

so sweet
and so cold." ?

"Reading, Miss? What d'ya mean 'reading'?" asked Einstein again.
"The meaning of a poem is not in the text; it's not in the poem, Einstein. The meaning is in YOU. What does this poem mean to you?"
"Poem? What poem?"

[NOTICE TO THE ENG 5W, ENG 1A, and ENG 105 STUDENTS OF MISS H: If you have something SENSIBLE to say about the poem above, please post you comment herein. If, like Einstein here, who doesn't manifest any brain activity, you can't come up with a cerebral evaluation of W.C. William's poem, JUST please go read some comic books.]