A poet pens a poem, ponders “Probably my most profound, near-perfect masterpiece.” With unabashed enthusiasm our proud poet allows some friends to read, expecting at least high praise, if not adoration. One friend who holds a M.F.A. and is well-schooled in poetry, “It cannot stand upon its own feet….Your lines obfuscate, with meaning rather obtuse to me.” Other friends, “The meter is wrong, the rhymes are forced, and maybe use a different style.” With confidence shaken, doubt replacing belief, revision is contemplated, but abandoned after a while. Our poet wads up the poem, tossing it in the street with disgust…A woman later picks it up, thinking “Litterbugs!”, opens it and starts to read. Her tears soon overflow. As she boards her bus, she is blinking back tears. “Are you all right, dear?” a lady notices. The poem is handed to her; she is soon sobbing. “May I read that?”…several more join in the group crying. Finally, “Read it aloud. All of us can hear it that way.” The crowded bus falls quiet while the poem is read. An awed silence is maintained long after its end. One man softly, “That’s the most any poem has ever touched me. In praise, I wouldn’t know how to begin.” Please visit my website: http://www.gillelands.com/poetry/ |