L. D. Bowers
On Poems
The Thought Fox has impressed the snow,
the poem has clicked shut like a box,
the thing is done, thank God, and now
skip round the room in pants and socks,
fling windows wide, let trumpets play,
run out and stand the pub a round...
Deluded man, if in the light of day
your perfect poem still looks sound
look round, the world is full of poets
all turning out their deathless stuff,
and if it’s published, then you know it’s
bound to be remaindered soon enough,
for no-one wants it, but for those
they need to glance at for their re-sits,
don’t kid yourself you’re Eliot or Hughes,
go fry an eel or take your bike to bits.
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