A famous poet
comes to a big hotel,
and I'm there.
As she reads, I'm supremely
confident about showcasing
my talent for her in a little while.
Finally, she indicates us,
the audience, with a broad
sweep of her arm:
'Now I'd like to see
what you can do! '
Intoxicated with confidence,
I move nearer to her,
biding my time. Nothing
comes to me to recite,
but it will, it will.
She goes on talking. Still
nothing. Then a few
lines sift into my head.
I begin to recite aloud:
'Come to the edge, he said! '
I passionately intone. A young man
sitting behind the poet
knows this short piece
by Apollinaire, with which
my longer poem begins,
and starts reciting it with me:
'They said, We are afraid! '
I tell the fellow to shush.
But the famous poet's attention
is elsewhere now. I'm drowned out
in the general din and chatter.
My face burning red, I leave
and go home to mother.
Even though your effort was lost in the shuffle, glad to see that you didn't give up on becoming a poet. It just wasn't your time to be recognized. A weaker person may have walked away and never come back. We are lucky that you stuck to your guns. Linda
yearning for fame as we all do but deep deeper seeing what really matters the clear vision into one's own heart with smile a fine poem
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The best seem to remain obscure... at least until after death! ! ! ! dan