Archipelago

Archipelago

Some say poets are randy goats
With endless groupies from the herd –
The source of passion-dripping quotes,
And rock stars of the spoken word.
And yes, their tongues are best when spoken,
Lilting, accented, uncowed –
As something primal has awoken,
Glamours cast when breathed aloud.

Some say poets are balding folks,
Bespectacled and analytic,
Full of dry and clever jokes
That half will miss…but not the critic.
Their mumbled tones are flat and beige,
Each vaguely RP, lacking hype –
No, theirs are poems for the page,
And come to life when set in type.

Some say poets are dreamy souls
Who pluck their verses from the ether –
Whispered into pigeonholes
By some unkempt yet soft bequeather.
Screamed and rambled on the stage,
And scribbled down to be forgot –
They’re sometimes tortured, sometimes sage,
And yet their words still hit the spot.

Some say poets, and far too many,
Neither speak nor set to ink –
They never want to share with any,
Terrified of what we’ll think.
And good luck to them, writing verse
Within their heads, a private lay.
There’s none are better, none are worse –
They’re poets all – as some would say.