Poetry about Poetry ... original or previously published poetry, September 2001
Poets Lament
I am alone.
Rejection slip after rejection slip, lonesome loopy writer.
This is me dripping tears upon my own purple prose.
And this is me, wizened, feebly flailing in the lines of violet verse.
I think continually of George and Weedon Grossmith.
One without the other, a nobody like me,
together, writers etched in the pantheon.
Creators of a somebody Nobody
they grew an immortal pure Pooter,
did it in harness.
And what of those twirling dervish cousins
of Irish beatitude,
Edith Somerville and Martin Ross?
Their salvation was to tap each others vein.
Only then did they pull from their heads Florence McCarthy Knox,
Wicked, wilful, winsome Flurry of foam and plumed air,
froth of a boy.
Ah well. No joy!
This is me. This is my present condition.
And this is my latest excuse.
I have no collaborator.
I long for coition.
I ache on the page.