POET IN THE BOX

The Sun arises on another day, the burning orb that lights my heart;
light it, light my day, burn my lonely soul.
Thus the poet greets the day, heads for the breakfast bowl.
I have pen and paper on the table, to catch an inspired thought;
but as I gaze at cereal advertising, creative thinking comes to nought.
My overpriced, organic, health food, mocks the starving, held by hunger’s locks;
I would rather be nutritious substance, than a poet in a box.

The mail comes in, I’m in for that, do not have a full time job,
because I’m an intellectual creative, not some calloused, blue collared slob.
Which reminds me of, pedicure at one, publisher meeting at three;
audience watch my hands highlighting vowels, it’s good to know the one in print is me.
I must pick up the orange pants,white, ruffle collared peasant smock;
the fashion of a creative identity, the look of a poet in a box.

Check mail to find subscription, to ‘Poet’s Weekly’ due again,
third place in the magazine writing contest, for which I’ve won a magic pen.
A bill for my dry cleaning, one from the stationary store,
subscription from ‘Poet’s Monthly; then hate mail from some bore.
That hits me in stiff, upper lip, highlights my emotions, time and stocks;
the personal and financial cost of being, just another poet in a box.

The drive to town, does not restore my confidence, the car is automatic, drives itself.
I compose vicious retorts to my hater, from diatribe off the shelf,
describe my surroundings, in mundane metaphors and verbs,
gazing with sullen boredom, at the passing people on the kerb.
My perception of the world, just words in lines like blocks;
a mindless illusion of being, a motorvated poet in a box.

Light lunch at the deli, where other noted speakers eat,
the advantage of a mouth of food, the inability to orally compete.
To be safe I do takeaway, avocado, tomato, basil, in organic wrap;
avoiding a feared rhyming riposte, or sarcastic sonnet slap.
The wicked wit of wispy beards, salacious gossip from frocks;
the social malaise of insecure ego, of the other poets in a box.

Home at last, I’m feeling down, publisher meeting was a bust;
sales were down, the market crashed, for poetry of structure and rust.
The public were burning books of technique, the practised prose of poetic lore;
the synthetic sentences of syntax, replaced by rap defying law.
Pompous pride and pedantic precision, that were once rising stocks,
pummelled by a more popular, public pleasing, poet in a box.

I go out to the sun deck, discreetly screened by trees,
do some limbering exercises, stretch my neck and bend my knees.
Flick legs around casually, a practised poet on the prowl,
then whipping arms out like lightning, I rehearse a gesticulated vowel.
The finger movements and gestures, indicating emotion, meaning, paradox;
the postulating choreography, of a theatrical poet in a box.

I wash off the rigours of the day, with a scented, bubbled, steaming tub,
then through a rigorous beauty regime, and perfumed pheromone body rub.
Then to the home bar, where a fortune has been spent,
to imbibe some liquid courage, get a little loose and bent.
For tonight is the big night, where bards battle with clocks,
the climactic competition, between all the poets in a box.

I walk into the foyer, they are behind the potted plant;
my hater from the mailbox, ambushing with a public rant.
The walls surround me like a moat, but I am in a castle on the hill,
a knight who has killed a thousand dragons, I prepare for blood to spill.
I announce loudly before I get there; ‘I would love to speak to you;
but I am really in a hurry, have important things to do.’
‘Important’ renders them impotent, muttering anger to their socks;
under public gaze I am a proud, purposefully parading poet in a box.

On stage now I’ve lost them, my mind, words and longed for audience;
as the lights trigger a psychedelic flashback, of coloured incandescence.
I am transported out of place, the crowd waits and holds its breath,
as I just keep dumbly standing, dying a slow poetic death.
The term ‘stage fright’ a misnomer, poets call them ‘mental blocks’,
the greatest danger facing, a performing poet in a box.

I make my escape at intermission, past lines of backs at bars,
a group of sycophants feeding, on some new rising star.
Through literary clique with wine, discussing must read books,
fat people cramming mouths with confectionery, while ignoring wondering looks.
Past the smokers in the lane, a contestant crashed amongst some rocks;
the substance and dietary abuse, practised by some poets in a box.
Venue is close to home, so I walk, beneath trees praying to the sky.
Three men emerge from an alley, one says; ‘Your wallet, or you die.’
I meekly hand it over, then hear his companion say;
‘Check out the pants and frilly shirt, you know how I hate the gay.’
I see no poetry in steel boots, the bruising shells of smelly socks,
as they vent their social xenophobia, on a bloody poet in a box.

The sun arises on another day and I hide, my Martian landscape facial features in the yard.
The bruising to my self and ego, are pain from blows as hard.
I have no choice but to sit still, watch plants, insect and bird,
who describe the world in a poetry, that makes my writing seem absurd.
The flowers tell me of beauty, that is imperfect and with flaws.
The insects describe a natural rhythm, in getting through their daily chores.
The birds sing songs of happiness, sign write joy across the sky;
the message life is the meaning, why worry how you will die?
So I relax in the moment, let the light wind stroke my coiffured locks;
think I would rather be a person in the now, than some fabricated famous poet in the box.