The Poet

A Poem by Femi Adejuwon

A poet speaks on poetry

They found the poet outside the park
His steps spoke many words of wine
His upper half was half asleep
And his feet walked a crooked line

His arms were spread as if to fly
His lips apart as though to speak
The telltale flush of liquid joy
Told tales of rum from cheek to cheek

The night herself caroused with him
Drunk on sadness, drunk on care
And drink they drank, the weary lovers
Setting wine against despair

The bonds of reason, broken down
His mind amok, and absent sense
The world in woe, the world in glory
Lay before his presidence

And it was then they walked to him
Rudely rousing man from dream
Casting eye on village bard
Taking man as man would seem

“Sing for us again, o bard
Cast your words on ears most keen”
This was why they broke his peace
Winters twice his summers seen

“Sing for us again o bard
Spin sweet words from bitter truth
Stir the embers of your heart
Dig through elder years to youth. And

Let the fountain spring with might!!
Showering us with wisdom earned
Showing us the link in hand
Of teachers harsh and lessons learned

Free yourself from wine’s embrace!
We would hear a tale or two”
Turns to them, a wizened face
“Ask not man, but what is due.”

Graying eyes regard the gathered
Moving on, from face to face
“The world turns in the hands of time
And yet all things remain in place

As yet all men remain the same
The board reset a dozen times
Pi-eces unaltered, so is game
Though rearranged, the given lines

You come to me as owed to debt
You plague me with unbridled want
Says at last the last laureate
'Cease at once your unjust haunt'"

It is a fever

“It is not a gift so given
It is not a boon bestowed
Nor is sight beheld as blessing
When the eyes have overflown

With the sorrows of existence
Pain cavorts with all men born
Know the price of your persistence
Hear the words of man forlorn

What is loss compared to weakness?
What is pain compared to need?
When the soul suffers from sickness
To give blood to those who bleed

O for those suffering in secret
O for ugly scars concealed
Know a secret’s mark of secrets
Is in wounds that never healed

The world at large, and I remain
Numb in spirit, numb of mind
My inner coldness fed by pain
Reaped from years left far behind

It is a fever that I own
It is an illness I possess
It is a symptom that you worship
It is a sign that you profess

To love, to need, to love to hear
While I remain diseased of soul
You clap, you chant, you disappear
Then falls to me, each telling’s toll

It is a sadness that I feel
It is madness that I suffer
When the muses present gifts
Keep in mind to spurn their offer

Talent has a price, and paid
This price I have, each passing day
Rise to cup and rise to can
Drink my fill then come what may

All my masters come before me
Warned me of the poem-man's curse
Know you all of Byron’s story
Know you all that Poe’s was worse

Happiness is bound to beauty
Joy to all that beauty, see
But for those that birth said beauty
All is pain and tragedy

Listen to my fading voice, now
Listen to my silent plea
Know the doom of every poet
And ask of this, no more from me

I will fellowship with Bacchus
Gimlets of the finest sort
Rise to can and drunken glory
Fall to pleasure and cavort

Now my night bids me return
Wine is all that shields from sorrow
Sets me free from all concern
Trouble enough, will be tomorrow”

His soul unburdened, back unbent
All are caught in lengthy pause
He turns to go, the air is rent
With sounds of cheer, glad applause

Now greying head lowers to ground
“Man may speak but none may hear
Sing for us again o Bard,
Has now become a thing to fear"