The Professional Poet
My eyelids felt so heavy, that I wished again to be
at home, and in my warm bed fast asleep.
I did not wonder what the poet said, for it was not to me.
I’d worked on my Medieval Literature project
too hard last night to have to stay awake right now.
I also didn’t really care to sit up straight and listen
to the articulated words or who they were about, or how.
And so I slept in that hard wooden pew
missing every single word the poet said.
I dreamt of autumn trees with orange leaves
and of wearing warm sweaters while I read
a fascinating novel, or perhaps a poem.
I was awakened then to run after a group
of people who did not wish to wait for us, and left.
I followed, half asleep, and had to stoop
to tie my shoe which came undone in haste.
I was already quite awake at the next reading
and wondered as I listened to the poets speak:
why are they here, a part of this huge meeting?
I did not understand, but also didn’t know
what it was, for sure, that I misunderstood.
“I am a poet,” she declared from the stage
and read a cloying, wordy poem where she stood.
There was a section that I liked, and maybe
some advice she gave was beneficial.
But there was something in it all that I disliked;
something in the way she spoke seemed superficial.
“As a poet I can say…”, “from my experience I’ll tell you”.
Who is a poet? Do I know?
And if these people, are really such in their profession,
why do they make it such a show?
And if each one chose the profession of a “Poet”
why do they speak in long, misleading phrases,
with convoluted meanings that simply do not show it?
I do not think that these here are true poets.
I think that standing on a stage
with loudspeakers, lights, and listeners
does not form from a man of any age
one who can turn the world into true art,
or into horror: depending on his or her perspective;
or a complicated creature of the world
who can combine any two words selected
into a beautiful and rhythmic rhyme.
A Poet is not made by audience and speeches,
the way the royal suite brings their King his fame.
A poet makes himself, and all he teaches
is how to see the world through his own eyes.