The Closet (bush) Poet
Posted: Fri Dec 20, 2013 2:36 pm
I guess that most of us were closet poets at one time.
This poem is written thinking of some blokes I’ve known out bush. It may surprise many to know that quite a few men (and possibly women) who have lived at least part of the time a solitary life, have turned their hand to writing the odd poem. Few will admit it of course and it’s only after you’ve know them for a long time they may let their guard down and admit it, but don’t expect them to let you read their poems. In fact they probably rue their moment of weakness in telling you about it in the first place.
THE CLOSET (Bush) POET
He hides away from prying eyes and writes of love and clear blue skies,
concocting rhymes and stirring tales of life out in the vast outback.
There is no wish to grace a stage, yet pours his heart out on a page,
his stories tell of long lost love, or of his life out on the track.
He has his way to write a poem; no rules for him, his styles his own
and worries not what’s right or wrong; just writes it as it should be read.
No doubt there’ll be mistakes galore and mangled English that’s for sure,
yet little does he really care his words just say what he wants said.
He whiles away his nights alone and thinks of people he has known,
old mates from many walks of life that he has met throughout the years.
Their stories whirl within his head; then turn to dreams once he’s in bed,
eventually he writes the poems; there’s some with humour - some bring tears.
He labours on for months sometimes while seeking words to fit his rhymes,
just simple words that tell a tale of happenings from long ago.
He writes about a way of life in happy days or times of strife,
they’re woven through the chequered lives of his and blokes he used to know.
His poems are hidden well away and none will see the light of day,
for those he’s kept will not survive; they’ll be destroyed in days ahead.
He couldn’t bear for folks to know the inner thoughts his poems may show,
of private matters hidden there, that tell of loss and tears he’s shed.
+++++++
© T.E. Piggott
This poem is written thinking of some blokes I’ve known out bush. It may surprise many to know that quite a few men (and possibly women) who have lived at least part of the time a solitary life, have turned their hand to writing the odd poem. Few will admit it of course and it’s only after you’ve know them for a long time they may let their guard down and admit it, but don’t expect them to let you read their poems. In fact they probably rue their moment of weakness in telling you about it in the first place.
THE CLOSET (Bush) POET
He hides away from prying eyes and writes of love and clear blue skies,
concocting rhymes and stirring tales of life out in the vast outback.
There is no wish to grace a stage, yet pours his heart out on a page,
his stories tell of long lost love, or of his life out on the track.
He has his way to write a poem; no rules for him, his styles his own
and worries not what’s right or wrong; just writes it as it should be read.
No doubt there’ll be mistakes galore and mangled English that’s for sure,
yet little does he really care his words just say what he wants said.
He whiles away his nights alone and thinks of people he has known,
old mates from many walks of life that he has met throughout the years.
Their stories whirl within his head; then turn to dreams once he’s in bed,
eventually he writes the poems; there’s some with humour - some bring tears.
He labours on for months sometimes while seeking words to fit his rhymes,
just simple words that tell a tale of happenings from long ago.
He writes about a way of life in happy days or times of strife,
they’re woven through the chequered lives of his and blokes he used to know.
His poems are hidden well away and none will see the light of day,
for those he’s kept will not survive; they’ll be destroyed in days ahead.
He couldn’t bear for folks to know the inner thoughts his poems may show,
of private matters hidden there, that tell of loss and tears he’s shed.
+++++++
© T.E. Piggott
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