You’re a poet, I hear?

“And you,” she said,
“you’re a poet, I hear?”
Was she questioning herself
or what she had heard?
“Uh, no, I’m a teacher.”
“Oh.” Disappointment?
“I mean, I do write poetry
from time to time.”
“Oh,” she said again
with less interest.
“I, uh, I studied poetry
back in university,” I mumbled.
“Hmm.” Even less interest.
“Could I get you a drink?”
But she was already fading away
blending in with the rest
of the world that I had
never really felt a part of.
I left then without being seen,
which was how I often
preferred to be, I must admit.
The buses were no longer running
so I walked along Sunset
and down towards Ocean Beach
until I reached my flat.
I crept in quietly
leaving the lights off
and shuffled into the kitchen
where I poured myself
another Hemingway
with fresh grapefruit juice
and sat down at my computer
knowing already quite
how the next pointless verse
would begin.

the poet

The words, the power, the very syntax
of your verse delights me,
says the linguist in me.

The imagery flows like molten clouds
over my aging soul,
cries the artist in me.

Your rhythm reaches into my heart
and entices me to sing,
chants the musician in me.

The sensuality of your voice caresses
my pulsating skin,
moans the lover in me.

To be a poet is to passionately embrace
so many untold selves,
says the me longing to be.

[inspired by Lucy’s “The syntax of spring“]

Me almost looking cool in Turkey (Jan 1992)

a writer’s confession

creative would you describe me
having witnessed how bravely
and openly this nonsense i babble?
in truth have you found me thus
what purpose this praise when
finer voices do hymns compose?

rather pauper poet invest me
for i have fallow fields furrowed
ever naively, i must now confess
seeding intentions so delicately
dressed yet smelling deservedly
of naught more fair than dung

expecting brilliance to blossom
urging accolades come cascading
yet reaping mildewed mediocrity,
husbanding such noble sentiment
as saints might lustfully proclaim
while gathering this putrid chaff

wishing pointless this coccyx me
a more righteous portion to attain
and still abstain from eyes open
spying the barest magnificence
inherent in the tiniest drop of
sweat that indifferent graces daily
the graven brow of any mother

now see you me for what i am
a man of no little reputation, yes
feeding off the efforts of others
suckling at the scabby tits of
a world i had no hand in making
and yet know i that in breaking
her back might i thereby erect
a monument to my own majesty

Salt Lake City 09 Jun 2012