The Uncouth Poet

In the night, winter-cold

The Uncouth poet wrote notebook full

Flames dancing, crackling heard, was the wooden stove

He’s possess –like, writing words as if hearing untold stories told

 

Even the mouse of the cabin took notice by pause

On one accord did wolves howl

Coffee cold, bourbon mixed, falls staining the cabin floor

 

He once stood with scholars room-full, even cursing them all

Claiming his eccentric style cease self-intimacy to be the poet,

But a critical task for which he was called.

 

Said what one can tell the poet; what is poetry?

Shall thy soul unto them lie? does not the soul speak to the heart?

If any write from the heart; The Poem,

Is not this alone just cause for the poet to be justified?

 

Snap! Off goes the trap

Unsuccessful the mouse

The uncouth poet from top-lung gives shout

Shut-up you wolves, I’m trying to write!

 

Slammed door, took notice the cabin floor

The mouse lie dead-still, the mouse was no more

Grabs the bourbon to drink, then drinks more

And again—

The uncouth poet wrote—notebook full