Friday, April 8, 2011

The Poet

The language he employed was plain,
As undistinguished as his face;
He mumbled in a monotone,
And, now and then, forgot his place.

Largely, he talked about himself,
As people do. I understand
His views on life extended from
A callus on his writing hand.

The critics charged, “These poems lack
That passionate intensity
Great art requires. Your words evoke
No worlds, they shed no light...” You see

His vision was quite limited.
He evidently had bad eyes
Like Milton and like Homer did—
Blind men who never missed a sunrise.

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