The critic

The status of critics has changed,

The most important critics were those who stood on street

corners

Full of gossip and finger wagging

Or the busty burly matrons whispering over washing lines

These critics were the slanderers

The little vipers who hung by the school gate

Some still do,

This time they sink a pint or two,

In the pub with a couple of pug nose friends

But there is a class of critics

That whitewash your pale white words

Austere and aloof from the proof,

Scrubbed clean and mean,

They murder sentiment

Mock fools without 'a scene'

Redefining the 'new' 'illiterattii, ' who never went to school'

These critics wear brogues.....? ?

Am I being cruel? [or just ironic? ]

The men drink whisky

The women a gin/ vodka and tonic!

Fifty years ago they would 'parade'

In a uniforn of tweed and plaid

Post public school

But some critics just thumbnail through

Half asleep over scripts they render dead/ unread

'They are not amused'

So don't lose any sleep

They have no time you

yvette smith may 2009

poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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