I awoke with two poets in my bed,
books I chose from the library, possibly
intent on a swift read while schmoosing
for poetic leads. My motives are appallingly
plain, a head bereft of fine ideas although
biographies are not an easy reading.
I picked Siegfried Sassoon instinctively (not
for any cogent reasons, I liked him in his
uniform though his name may cause
a resonance), and William Butler Yeats
who sat nearby within an easy reach,
so I took him too. I flicked them through,
scanned a few pages, gazed at the ancient
pictures, yawned, left them on the bed
and rediscovered them this morning.
Now I have two books to read
on the hidden lives of immense poets,
written no doubt by excellent biographers
intent on doing their subjects proud.
It unnerves me that what I am about to do
is discover who lurks behind their pretty poems.
© I.D. Carswell
