On Poetry

History taught me how scarce poet those days 
Circling in a dull world, sea and clouds and the moonlight bask 

A young poet sitting on the cafe

Ordering his meal at 2 in the morning

Waiting for sad muse to come 

And sat with him, promised a sweet kiss

If he come out on a good piece 

That been on his head for over a year, perhaps, in awhile, and in sadness he turned himself to wine

Holding a gun and blown his head

A world without rain just wind

Walking empty in barren plain

In gray and dust, and nothing else

We been there before, where we only

Pick up an old battered book 

from the shelf

Wounding it and say hello to Chaucer or Browning

Ushering us to the hallway

Seeing William Shakespeare, holding an empty goblet, his baldy head 

How those people had amazed us,

As we pondering on right syllable, perfect consonants and syntax at blotched ink, 

Not forgetting — 

To pay homage to Introduction 

Of Poetry sitting on his couch

With a tagline, make sure to rhyme 

and don’t forget metre on your way out

photo: coldfrontmag.com


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