From the archives – Poet — by John Calvin Hughes

Poet

Poet

Why are there always roses
and moonlight in your poems?
What’s that supposed to be?
It’s not love, I
know that. Lamplight and bedclothes
and beautiful girls in various states
of undress, but they don’t mean anything
and neither do your poems,
flashy and smooth
but empty as drums.
You call yourself a poet,
but look: your eyes are all
blacked up, two fingers
off your left hand.
You look more like a garbage man.
I’ve seen you, rising at noon
to sit at the kitchen table
and pour a handful of brandy
into a short glass.
And I’ve seen you raise
it to the sunlit window, saluting
with absent fingers,
scribbling on yellow pads and laughing.
Then, drinking the brandy,
turning your closed eyes to me,
you say, this is the life.

from Autumn Sky Poetry 9 — by John Calvin Hughes

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s