! A Poet Poem by Michael Shepherd
! A Poet
He — or was it she?
was a child who said little
but walked, endlessly, just looking
or stood still for minutes, hours,
and became what they looked at
was from a large family
but still people said, you’re an only child aren’t you
was it seems very happy in themself
but no-one asked, so never said
kept themself to themself, which annoyed
other children, who bullied them
and then were even more annoyed
when they didn’t play the victim
failed examinations and yet
was always wrapt up in a book
occasionally did things like cutting themselves
and was told off but never questioned usefully
wrote poems secretly but was unconcerned
whether people read them or not
was good to be with as long as you
didn’t expect anything of them
was secretly loved by some
who never liked to say so
because what they loved somehow
didn’t have a name
years later, some of them read the poems
and knew what they had loved
Sweet portrait. And I, windblown and in from the cold and rain, am jealous of you who are getting a dozen comments per poem. Maybe you're better writers, I have to conclude (sigh) .
Wow, how very interesting! Such lovely work and it give's a sense of sharp meaning. Penetrates the mind and make's you think. Of so many different things. It's sorta like a riddle that tells the answer yet it give's light to other things as well. I very much loved this piece and I hope you make millions more like it!
Your description of a poet is much more comprehensive and serious than the lighthearted version my mother used to give me when she caught me writing instead of doing my chores. 'He's a poet and you should know it because his nose is a longfellow.' You, and Billy Collins here in the States, are now both on my list of being able to show what it is to be a poet.
A Poet! ! Years later. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
This poem is good, simple and beautiful...it takes the reader thru a circle of life and ends him in a comforting triangle...kudos
there is a lot of things England may not be proud of. but they may be proud of you. thanks for your humanity. john
Oh micheal you filled up my shoes completely had I met you when I was 10 I wouldn't have told you my secret even if it was your secret too.10 again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 2:39:46 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Very true, indeed-this need for solitude, to have the time, the leisure, to observe, to become a part of all that we behold, to become sun, cloud, flower, stream, blade of grass. And sure enough, as you say, others will think it weird, odd. But, as you also point out, art, beauty, poetry is the outcome of all those oddballs who feel life so much and struggle with words to let others know-like the poet who wrote these lines: you. Thanks for sharing.