And so I had a glaring revelation, I couldn’t find the
poet in the man although I read his life composed by
writers true disposed to tell it with veracity. They
built a monument in words and deeds, a shrine of
writers’ reeds inlaid with fine and proper quotes.
Those motes were hardly real; I couldn’t find the poet
in the man they wrote, but when I found alone the man
within the Poet reading from his poetry I was replete.
Perhaps they can’t compete those dry and dusty
counters of the 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 read
the poet rather than the man and will not place my
future faith in such abstruse ingrained scatology.
© 2007, I.D. Carswell