The Poor Poet

the poor poet

Here’s the picture that I wrote about in my last post. The internet fills me with awe. Who puts all this stuff there for us to use? An obscure postcard falls serendipitously out of a second hand book and leads me in directions I could not have foreseen. The painting is called The Poor Poet: I didn’t know that when I wrote the following poem. Nor did I know quite how sad the painting is or how the mysterious message on the back of the postcard would haunt me.

Dear Mother

Within this room my soul reclines

measuring the rafter with my eyes.

It meets the roof tile’s tender spot

and frames the hurrying sky.

Father’s umbrella comes in handy

when it rains.

I am sorry that I burned the Ovid-

It was a cold Christmas

and the stove went out.

The wind whistles down the chimney.

It is the only sound. From it I take sustenance.

Wise men have tuned me to the cosmic pulse.

Leaving will hole my very existence.

I am coming to visit from an attic

No special arrangements please

Your loving son Dennis.




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