(04 October 1943 / Germany)


A poet wrote a lot of stuff
but no one liked to read it,
yet he had judged it good enough
and that's how he succeeded.

Some critics, quite articulate,
pronounced it so clichéed,
they acted 'up-themselves' a bit,
their faces looked dismayed.

Big words came tumbling from their lips,
line breaks, also free verse.
They talked at a staccato clip,
their verdict was a curse.

The people read his poetry
and begged that he write more,
each afternoon, at half past three
they'd wait outside his door.

He dropped them from the windowsill
just as he wrote them down,
the crowd reached from the Barley Mill
right to the edge of town.

The critics lost their voices then,
(that must have been God-given) ,
the citizens all voted 'ten'.
The poet? He was driven.

User Rating: 4,5 / 5 ( 8 votes ) 4

Comments (4)

''Good Job! '' (You have the talent)
I really like this one Herbert! Very nice. Sincerely, Mary
I love this poem....Very original - The talent is you certanily...
It always shines through in the end Herbert, as does your tribute, to keep on keeping on. 10 from Taiesque poet.