Failed Poet Curating Poems, And Lackey Poem by Shikhandin Shikhandin

She's been doing this for years now. Has
quite a following. All hopefuls. Young. Old. All
queuing up with gifts within innocuous looking
paper, printed on one side, at her door.

It is not supposed to be a clumsy activity. It ought
to have the grace of ballerinas, and normally does. But
she does it with arthritic limbs. The stuff she picks
are the easiest to hold. Her criterion rests on sleight
of hand. She shuffles and reshuffles the culled
poems like a compulsive gambler or a Solitaire addict.

The lines of a poem fan out; a nice phrase pops
its head up to be admired. A fat simile squeezes
in. Metaphors split apart. In no time the poem looks
like a plate of upturned caterpillars and centipedes,
wafer dry creepy-crawlies. Thin hairy legs
wildly gesticulating to be set right again.

Then she has tea.
Sitting cross legged. Her pen fluttering
like an ostrich plume. The pinkie of her cup
wielding hand fanned out. She could be
a Buddha or a gypsy queen depending
on the occasion. She gestures and I am beside

her, ready to do my job. Pick a piece. Obedient
parrot me, I offer up my choice. She sucks
in her breath and starts to unravel it. She believes
it is important to expose the exact point where the soul
of the poem sleeps its beauty sleep. She must
discover the location of her reasons for a yay
or nay. She waves a finger like a wand
with the confidence of one whose choice alone can
bring back a finished poem from the dead.

(First Published in The Lake - Contemporary Poetry Webzine, UK)