The fourth: the poet upon a bed

Can’t think.
What is a poet without inspiration?
I haven’t read any good poetry lately.
It’s all a farce, anyhow.
I’ve been watching movies all day,
and now Richard Gere is on the screen,
in a blue bathrobe; the side of his face
is profiled, his hair is grey, and although
he is trying to sound tired and dull, he can’t.
He doesn’t look to be the kind of person
who can write poetry, though.

But a poet is not writ on the skin,
but in the hand. It is not the sparring
of the soul against the mutiny of the world,
but rather, it is the humiliation of defeat
before the awesome presence of a golden drum,
forever beating day by day, past the horizon,
and knowing that with every pound,
you lose one more breath of air.


p.s. by the way, if you've a taste for some gorgeous imagery and rhythms, visit 's lj site. She has a new poem up right now.


Re: p.s. It was beautiful, thank you. The goal of poetry to me has always been the ability to combine imagery, rhythm, and story, into a small meal for the soul, that can be taken again and again. That poem did a wonderful job with that.


Ha--I like this; I like how you snared me with the ordinary, the conversational opening, and then moved into the next stanza. And the humiliation of defeat feels right and true (maybe it's after that blue bathrobe and greying hair). Great closing too.