Bury A Poet
Some poets write, then publish
what is written—
Victorian ladies comment, are half smitten,
Close followed by those ones who count mistakes—
And in the end, well… all it ever takes
Is some old crank know-nothing with a grudge
To space out paragraphs of narrow sludge;
Bean-counting lists; more negative the better;
Word after word, to make one bitter letter.
these words are measured by
The blot upon the page, and all in sight
Join in the ruckus looking for a fight.
This fan club—harsh and brash—is on the rise,
To praise each other’s efforts to the skies.
The poet? Buried
in subservient lies.
He’s on his speaker; she’s talking on her phone.
He hears her clearly; she feels left alone
Beneath the surface of the deepest waves,
And strains to find the clarity she craves.
His sentences lack something at the end,
Then tidal pull returns them, lest the bend
Of that deep undertow of thought and sense
Might rise up and demand some recompense.
Those other people climbing in his car
Push him across the waves to take him far
Beyond the depths where she might care to go—
She isn’t sure how far, and must go slow.