I recently met a young man, who was a poet, and even after much persuasion he would not allow me to read or hear his work.
It took me months and years before I finally gathered enough courage to print off a bunch of my poems, and plonk them furtively on the table of a trusted friend. I almost whisked them onto the floor in my haste to scuttle away, in fear that I might actually be there when he read them.
I cringe a little when I think back to some of those poems that were coarser than the 'rough. ' And clearly no diamond was able to be gleaned. And yet, many of those little buds of poems have developed with his gentle and very kind input, and away from my tightly grasping hands. They have taken flight and now have a life of their own. Some living on YouTube, some strutting their stuff every now and again on Sydney stages, and some took up residence on the pages of my book. And to think I nearly kept them hidden.
So, for this young man, with his cloistered poems, I wrote this poem. For encouragement and inspiration.
perhaps i am not the poet
merely the catalyst for A Blake
the unassuming spark
for an artist
to arouse the sleepy talent
of our great master
or my work
are not remembered
but that my job has been done
and that he
in his greatness
redefines poetry as we know it
just played my part
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