The Poet As Noun, by PD lyons


Poet as Noun

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

he did not think of it

he did not believe it to be divine

he was afraid of everything else

so he did this one thing

not that he didn’t do other things

but they were all varying responses to fear

attempts to over come

deny

hide from

himself and others

like the first one to do acid

like the first one to not cut his hair

like the first one to get married have a kid get divorced

get arrested go to jail

leave town leave the country

all the while knowing the falseness of bravado

he did not know what else to do

so he wrote

no matter how high

how angry

how lonely enough to believe that god did in fact exist and had abandoned him

no matter how much sex

how many lovers

how many miles

how many broken torn up hearts including his own

he did this one thing

and because of this he never needed anyone to tell him who was

yeah they could call him whatever

bastard

mother fucker heartless bastard

just a kid

a kid in love

a bleeding heart

ignorant liberal

beautiful lover

hackney painter

failed husband

a traveler of foreign lands

a lover a husband a loving husband a loving father

an outlaw of love a dealer of drugs a rider of fast horses across broken unknown terrain

selfish, grifter,

all these were changeable all these mere adjectives

temporary partial descriptions,

the noun he had always been

because he did this one thing

and then one day he stopped

1974 crosby

1974 crosby

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Comments

  • Donna J Snyder  On August 15, 2015 at 9:24 pm

    You nailed it. Bravado sounds merited.

    So much here I identify with, either as subject or as object or as lover or as wife.

    I am having dreams.

    Liked by 1 person

  • Donna J Snyder  On August 15, 2015 at 9:25 pm

    You’re writing, rather than being divine, is real, earthy, pungent.

    Like

    • pdlyons  On August 16, 2015 at 9:15 am

      Those masterful images because complete
      Grew in pure mind but out of what began?
      A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
      Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
      Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
      Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone
      I must lie down where all the ladders start
      In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

      W. B. Yeats, “The Circus Animals’ Desertion” from The Poems of W. B. Yeats: A New Edition, edited by Richard J. Finneran. Copyright 1933 by Macmillan Publishing Company,

      http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172071

      Like

  • Phil  On August 16, 2015 at 6:12 pm

    The poet writes with blood when he gets too close to the marrow.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pdlyons  On August 16, 2015 at 7:01 pm

      which is exactly where he or she should be

      Like

    • pdlyons  On August 16, 2015 at 7:06 pm

      the photo is from 1974 crosby year book

      Like

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