The Author - Poem by Oskar Hansen
A man was coming to stay with us at our little farm, this was years
ago when someone who could read the papers was an intellectual
or if not a clever dick too smart for his own good.
The writer was supposed to work too, as to get the feel of farm life.
But he was weedy didn’t want to help with mucking out in
the barn in the morning, he had to go back to his typewriter.
Finally, his manuscript was done he left a big eater he was not missed.
Two years later when the book came out it has little to do with us
but how hard he had suffered pretending he was a child slave and
much was written about this, but no one came to our farm asking us
about the man. Time has changed today people would have asked
questions and not taking printed words for granted
Comments about The Author by Oskar Hansen
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye