Monsignor On His Desk Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

Monsignor On His Desk



My Monsignor on his desk
Sate him
Now and then being
Of summer heat
The flies assaulted him
Bang! a newspaper came down
Then silence again
And scribbling
The sound of the pen
Scribbling over the papers
My Monsignor ate fast
And junk
Ate in his stress and
Hurry
Wanted so much from life!
And life nagged him
Because life nags
And nags the most whom
She sees wants the most:
With her
There's no meritocracy
No deserving:
My Monsignor dug
His teeth in a dessert fruit
Dropped a few juice drops
Over the inked manuscript
No worry!
The drops were little and
Fell in non strategic
Positions.
My Monsignor continued
To write and write
For he knew that he
Was
By far the greatest of the
Oblivion Troupe
Fortune won him no honors
No not even one
Yet still continued he
In his writing, writing
Flow, flow, flow,
Generous and irresistibly

Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: life
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Daniel Brick 13 December 2014

This is a humbled Monsignor, I'd almost say he is reduced in stature to that of a writer who has no audience - that is the meaning of OBLIVION TROUPE, right? Although he struggles to writes frequently, consistently, faithfully he has no audience that will read his works and give him the encouragement of knowing his writing is not just self-expression but also communication. Those are the two elements which motivate US WRITERS - SELF EXPRESSION and COMMUNICATION. We want to KNOW there is at least one thread that connects us to a reader who gives a symbolic tug on the thread to let us know simply but profoundly - YES, MESSAGE RECEIVED! (Hurrah, cries the writer, or perhaps only thinks it.)

2 0 Reply
Daniel Brick 10 December 2014

You coined a name for those poets who write out a sense of purpose but without any of the normal rewards of ame and fortune (well, poets never get fortune, only fame!) - the OBLIVION TROUPE. I suppose you and I and countless others at PH belong to this troupe of dogged troubadours. We may be no more significant in the Universe than the flies the poet killed. So it goes. Herman Melville wrote poetry and fiction after the failure of MOBY DICK to no avail - until the 1920s when his writing reached the empyrean and has stayed way up there ever since. Maybe some young poet circa 2199 will read my comments and think in bewilderment, They didn't appreciate Cefai back then! What were they thinking?

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