Political poems are by definition clunkers. They feel heavy and weigh in awkward. Here is one of mine that started its life as bit of prose that I knew had to end up being a poem:

 

Clunker #1

 

We have lost,

more birds,

to suicide on our front porch window glass

this year

than ever before.

Civilizational arc or fuse?

 

This is what it became:

 

Revised Clunky

 

The arc of civilization–

does it begin or end

with the broken neck

of a brown thrasher

dashed on a porch window?

Is its death an accident

or suicide?

Or is it a lit fuse?

 

 

Still clunky, but it’s my clunky. The point is that all poems are clunkers because language is a kludge at best and a big lie at worst.