Poets in our culture remaining entirely unremunerated, and the nether regions of patriarchal society not having lost, in 6,000 years of evolution, their degrading, dangerous and unacceptable expectations of any living creature within their purvue, this poet was first introduced to homelessness, with its attendant loss of (count ’em) 1500 pages of her unpublished early works, about a decade ago.
Only a handful of those works have been reconstructed — most of them remembered, to yours foolie’s astonishment, with virtually absolute accuracy.
Regarding this particular piece, however, first written at the age of twenty two, she has the creeping feeling that some few lines in it somewhere remain unrewritten…
Well, enough survives to give the general sense. Perhaps the rest will come back to her someday.
“the reading” (0:54):
A poet is the strangest sort of soul
You in this life may e'er expect to meet
More broken even while more truly whole,
Innocently intending well, more sweet
Than any but a five year old should be
Unfit to meet a callused world's demand
Or to behave aught expediently
All grace in flight; an albatross on land
Do not the all too common error make
Do not fall into the too easy trap
Avoid the fatal egoic mistake
Imagining that poet be a sap
Powerful spirits classic and antique
Give voice when poets ope their mouths to speak