We’ll Make A Bloody Poet Of You Yet

My mentor looked up from his desk,
weary eyed, shoulders attested a
huge weight balanced, unforgiving,
in the place he looked out from.

Yes, he asked, I showed him the script
he’d requested. This is crap, he said,
without reading it, you know it, I know it,
let’s not inflict it upon the unsuspecting.

I quipped, too quickly and I knew, how
about the suspecting ones, we could
get an honest opinion there. I mean
this is hours of work I’ve done.

Pig’s arse, he said. It’s crap and that’s
that. Bin it boy, don’t waste your time.
I sighed, knew how right he was, I’d toed
the line with tripe and paid the price.

He smiled, forgave me with a nod and said,
remember day one when you penned the
first verse I read out to class. About a raw
and open heart which throbbed in fear?

I remembered, almost lost in tears for weeks,
a loneliness that seared. I mumbled yes, I was
ashamed of it. That’s great he cried, just great,
---we’ll make a bloody poet of you yet!
© I.D. Carswell 2007