Monument In Words

And so I had a glaring revelation;
I couldn’t find the poet in the man
I read by writers true disposed to
tell us of his life composed with
great veracity.

Although they built a monument
in words and deeds, a shrine of
writers’ reeds inlaid with fine and
proper quotes – they were motes
I thought and hardly real.

I couldn’t find the poet in the man
they wrote about, but when I found
alone the man within his poetry by
reading fast and furious
at last I was in verse replete.

Perhaps they can’t compete these
counters of the dusty grains of sand,
there’s more evoked within a ball of
dimpled clay on any day a sculptor
lends his hands to shape a face;

I’m pleased to say I’d rather read the
poet than the man who elevates his
august name and will not place my
future faith in such abstruse scatology.
© 16 August 2006, I.D. Carswell