there is a grey haired old woman
whom I once knew at school who
recently read one of my poems once...
then preceded uninvited to tell
me for over fifteen minutes what
sort of poetry I the poet wrote...
this ranting I found rather amazing
considering I had already imagination written
several thousand four thousand plus poems...
this grey haired old
woman all knowing
had read only one...?
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Exactly! Well expressed! (no grey hair here) Reminds me of a woman who watched me work for 5 minutes once, and thought she had me all figured out...