Where the Poets Go to Write Their Poems.

February 13, 2010 § 3 Comments

(With apologies to the Brothers Grimm.)

After their spouses or kids or pets go to sleep, the poets roll back the rug or crawl under the bed or move the dresser and behind it is a tiny door into which they disappear.  On the other side of the door is a landscape and the poets eye-eat it up.  They see the night away.  Their fathers are confused because they keep wearing out their pens.  Don’t I provide you with enough pens? their fathers cry.  It gets bad and then it gets worse.  Pens don’t grow on trees.

One night the fathers pretend to be asleep and wait hunched outside the poets’ doors and when they’re sure it’s clear the fathers follow them in.  The fathers find, behind the door, these things: a moon, a river, a field, weather, round exotic fruit, gossamer, mountains, a horse, small birds, branches and their shadows, variously sized rocks, someplace to apply the verb to lay.

This looks familiar, the fathers think to themselves.  Then they remember this:

The fathers slip back through the door and down the hall and into their warm beds and never ask the poets about where they go ever again.

(This post brought to you by poetry slush, jerkiness, and Billy Joel.)


§ 3 Responses to Where the Poets Go to Write Their Poems.

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