Great Poets

by Poetry

for there to be successful writers,
commercial poets
great poets recording twisted skeletons
of the age – a scaffold of mediocre writers,
poets who call themselves poets;
beauty and analysis
are not enough – you
demand ugliness & half-beauties
& blindness
below them;

I am one such; proud
to walk ahead
bowed
protected by a guttural brow,
unfriendly – proletariat
through the streets
to sketch the souls
great poets deemed beneath
their hands &
left on the pavements
                                              bird-shit souls
to stare at the stars
& dream of first loves
& first lines
& no applause

It would be so easy to declare this writing the work of a great poet, misunderstood in their own time. It is a tempting proposition. However, it isn’t true. No Miller in his youth. No Lawrence smouldering tuberculosis. Nothing. A damaged thing, struggling to cry in the dark and feel in the dawn.

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were I a painter
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body-bed-body torturous
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