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
The uncouth poet wrote—notebook full