Stolid Writer

Stolid Writer was a fighter
but could not fight his wife.
This was a class on poetry
and it cut like a knife.

Yet he could tell that she meant well
in giving him this gift.
Yet a workshop on Keats and Poe
left him pent up and miffed.

So he went on despite the yawn
he knew he’d have to quell.
Non-fiction was his bailiwick--
to him all verse was hell.

However, he was introduced
to works that made him grin.
There was The Raven at the door,
and he was taken in.

He saw how Frost was almost lost
when stopping by a wood.
The snow, the horse, divergent road,
things he now understood.

And to his shock he had a talk
with Shakespeare from the past.
His plays and sonnets spoke to him;
he felt like it could last.

Such poetry rang out that he
in truth embraced the class.
He found a song within himself,
like Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

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