14 Dec 2012

On the performance of the performing poet.

Do these poets and poetesses desire a career on the
Silver screen
Name up in lights
Flowers down at
Feet? It seems that way tonight.

Would they rather they were a singer or rapper
The label ‘poet’ as just a temporary affliction?
The question hangs in the air.

They writhe and shout and contort themselves while lost
In the moment (Or if not the moment then a moment.
Yet still nowhere near Jimi inside the Star Spangled banner)

And exuding confidence, the crowd falls
In line
And then the dreaded WHOO
I hate the whoo

Call me a traditionalist
Call me an old
Call me a hater and jealous and better than you
And I am all these things

But some words are meant to be read
Not read
And while there are exceptions to the rule – this
Particular night was saved by SW – they are few

It is for Carl GJ to discern the introvert/extrovert ratio
I am just here to listen
To make it through to the beautiful reflection of the
Cold and dark, in one piece

Back home alone in my small silent corner
To write about them while they
Tour the stages of the