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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=461073" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>That poem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was a day much like any other.<br>Too many letters to open right now; <br>The phone pipped and bleeped and hissed<br>as it recorded too many requests<br>to read here, go there, answer these questions, <br>be interviewed; <br>why did you write this poem, <br>did you mean – ten lines <br>of prosaic speculation follow, about some mere<br>two words; wouldn’t this poem<br>be better without the last two lines? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">please read my poems and<br>return the manuscript with<br>your extensive comments…<br>(the invisible PS reads ‘I’m just<br>as good as you, and younger, and, moreover, <br>more in touch’…) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">the occasional face peering<br>over the gate; once every few weeks<br>a stranger boldly knocking at the door<br>so sure the poet would be glad<br>to meet a fan, unannounced, <br>eager to tell them what their<br>poetry really meant…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">his fame, like some dark aura<br>which he would have craved, in those days <br>when he rose early, wrote for hours<br>to preserve his sanity, before he went out<br>to that job which made him miserable – his fame<br>now pressed around, demanding.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was a day much like any other: <br>a poem might come, life<br>might flow; flow down, flow through, flow out..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dusk and a sigh and a laying down of pen; <br>should today’s lines go straight into the overflowing bin, <br>or be returned to tomorrow, in the fresh of day -<br>there seemed to be something there<br>around coffee time that morning, <br>it was going somewhere…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Years later, this poem, found in his<br>random papers when his widow <br>paid her last gleaning respects to the genius<br>which she loved less certainly<br>than she loved the man –</div><div style="margin:10px 0">this poem would be pounced upon, <br>chewed, spat out with discriminating pride<br>by literati – look, our idol has his feet of clay..<br>shall we measure his greatness by his failure<br>or feed our envy and our self-regard? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No. Sit here, in his chair; take up his pen; <br>put that poem in front of you; <br>be there, on that day like any other<br>when no sublime inspiration came; <br>yet, work was done, somewhere, innerly; <br>know that; <br>love poetry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=461073" data-title="That poem de Michael Shepherd" data-description="It was a day much like any other.
Too many letters to open right now; 
The phone pipped and bleeped and hissed
as it recorded too many requests
to read here, go there, answer these questions, 
be interviewed; 
why did you write this poem, 
did you..."></div>
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