From a random seed, in embryo, it took form, expanded.
In time it struggled into the light.
We both slept, exhausted, survived the night
And in the morning woke, and quickly bonded.
Soon, to take the air, we ventured out: ‘O it's a poem!’,
The people glowed. ‘What perfect little feet!’ and tickled its toes.
My poem gurgled, sucked its thumb, and wrinkled up its nose,
Then cooed in my ear all the way home.
An as I washed, dried and powdered its words, I found -
(Perhaps, by instinct, I knew it should be changed) -
That as it was redressed, before my eyes it rearranged,
Became more handsome, made an altered sound.
As time went on its world became a bit parochial.
I sought a fellow who might spot its wider worth.
‘Although I would't back the earth on the birth
Of genius’, he said, ‘I think it's got potential.’
So, off my poem went to that place where poets, born
Not manufactured, review and display their best.
It came back. No message. But I guess they were impressed;
They invited me, as guardian, to complete a membership form.
I sent my poem to a place of international fame.
I put on my bravest face when they asked, ‘Is this a draft?
Or perhaps an uncompleted exercise?’ I just laughed.
Your loss, I thought, will be someone else's gain.
Gem-studed; manicured; power-dressed for big interviews:
But a poem can only take so much - Too long;
Don't get it; refers to itself; too Larkinesque;
Too much narrative; nice idea, but too jargonesque;
Too short; too repetitive; doesn't get going;
Try to avoid this sort of poem; all rather slack - was this true?
Still, at least we had each other, though I sensed my poem was tired.
By the sun-warmed shed, where we sat one day, wordlessly
Weighing our lives, it slid from my grasp breathlessly
Onto the path, crept under the gate, and expired.
The end was inauspicious. No brass-handled march, no hearse,
Nor even an envelope. The unsung as ever cremated
In silence, returning to the nothing from which they were created.
As for me I didn't feel better, or, for that matter, worse.