Poem For My One-Legged Lover, the Wine Glass, No. 42

POEM FOR MY ONE-LEGGED LOVER, THE WINE GLASS, NO. 42


Shelley sat by a Tampa river on his return
From somewhere. He did not know where
He had been. A college near by so out
Came an English professor to jog
Off the weight he gained eating
the cafeteria food.
The professor was thinking about how
The twenty-first century would end,
Would it end with dancing
and the next century
Began with dances from all over the world
As it happened during
the last two centuries.
He saw Shelly sitting on a concrete bench
Gazing at an egret who had lit on mud.
Shelley showed his poems in manuscript,
The same poems in the textbook
The professor taught. The professor
Asked, "Have you ever been published
In The New Yorker, say at an early age
Like twenty-four. Or had your picture
On the front page
of The American Poetry Review."
Shelly said, "No." The professor
Reread the poem he had taught
And praised many times, but
In manuscript unrecognized, said,
"I'm sorry, son, you'll never make
it as a poet. Your style is too lyrical
and realistic for our age when
poetry has taken a "linguistic turn."


Duane Locke

Posted over on Motherbird