President Trump is human. It hurts when people say his language — constant repetition of the first-person singular and a few highly-charged adjectives — is essentially that of a sixth-grader with a grudge.
But he knows that there is some truth in this, and, determined to elevate his speaking and writing at least to high-school level, he has started to read poetry and to utilize its vocabulary and structure to refine his language. The ego is still there, but progress is evident.
Here are some examples:
From Joyce Kilmer’s Trees
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovelier than me.
A me whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against some earthy, swelling breast.
A me that looks on God all day
And lifts a nearby skirt to play.
A me that may in Summer wear
An extra swirl in my blond hair.
Upon whose bosom heads have lain.
Who intimately lives with gain.
Poems are made by fools like thee,
But only God can make a me.
From Emily Dickinson’s Because I Could Not Stop For Death
Because I could not stop for Lunch —
I made It stop for me —
The Lunch Cart held but just Myself
And one big urn of Tea.
We slowly drove — It knew no haste —
And I had put away
At least a gallon of that brew —
I really had to Pee —
We passed the Senate, where I knew
There had to be a John —
But … damn … the Cart kept going til
We passed the Setting Sun —
Or rather — He passed Us —
I felt the pee invade my Shoes
My Socks, my Suit, my Tie bedamped —
What awful fucking News —
We paused before the House, which seemed
To offer some Relief —
But every stall, a Democrat
I made my Pit Stop brief —
Since then — ’tis Centuries — and yet
I can’t forget the Day
I suffered more than Jesus Christ —
For just an urn of tea —
From William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
a red baseball
blazed with plain
beside the white