At forty

I’m overweight, creaky,
have brownish bags under my eyes,
just read five minutes of Carlos Williams

This is a world I’ve left
I haven’t much good to say about it
(might I perhaps be denying the good times the good
to perversely justify the bad of these times?)

The Carlos Williams I have in my mind
is not really the doctor, it’s rather
the good looking man on one of his
New Directions paperbacks,
a guy with a scout hat,
sort of like a Mountie of poetry

Really, not a poet
There’s something to say for somebody who
delivered 2000 babies

And about me they (if they will ever bother)
might say: deliverer of thousands of lines
of infertile industrial prose

Johannes Beilharz ( © 1999 )

Published with the author’s permission for Sunday Scribblings’ and Aging.


About niebla

I wish to remain clear of details. My words shall lift the veil.
This entry was posted in Language, Life, Literature, Poetry, Words and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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