The Birth Of The Poet (Muse #19)

He first saw print, some time

between Wednesday and Thursday. His mother

kept

clocks in a scarum, under the stairs.

They were ringing midnight

for fifteen minutes, all slang jangle.

 

Far to go, or full of woe:

he never knew. His mother superstitiously

spilt some green ink

on his birth certificate, and framed it,

the date in doubt.

 

The midwife was no muse.

The doctor heard a knocking heart, and

ticked a chart. The registrar

begged pardon.

 

It was his mother who put him down

for poetry. She folded some foolscap,

and delivered his wish to the chimney.

It flew, smouldering at the edges,

into a sky buxom with cloud.

.

From Muse Poems and others