A Lesser Poet

A Lesser Poet
I will be remembered as a lesser poet, if at all — a clumsy ox who fell from my wobbly ladder while picking apples I thought were stars. Pitied, perhaps, as one not quite in my right mind, condemned to spend my days this way. See him writing on his prison walls: he thinks he’s at the Parthenon, poor fool, or that he’s a holy beggar wandering the sun-bleached ruins of an abandoned Asia Minor town. See him holding court with no one in the room, see him in the street speaking languages unknown, a child in ragged clothes, an old man all alone, see him in his field sowing seeds on rocky ground. As a lesser poet he is sadly unaware, patience yields the richest gems: he picks up any twig and calls it grand, talks to spiders and grains of sand, counts the fingers on each hand and finds new meaning there. If only he could see what’s real and frame it all in thoughtful words: we might believe him then. If only he would tell us what we truly need to know: how to live, how to be, what to think, the meaning of our dreams, then a greater poet he would be. *November 11, 2005* Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author	Main Page Author’s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let’s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation E-mail & Parting Thoughts Flippantly Answered Questions
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