The Successful Poet
So a collection was duly brought out,
Tastefully bound in green limp-leather.
Copies being duly dispatched
To every important reviewer.
The preface was careful to disclaim,
All the pretensions the author really cherished.
It didn’t really matter it seemed,
If the poems lived or perished.
But critical acclaims; though unsolicited,
Was still ardently desired.
A few reviews in the right journals,
That , was what the case required.
And all things being considered,
The best strategy on balance,
Was to invite all the mandarins.
Being gracious but with a nonchalance,
Which though bogus, could still pass muster.
Provided the whisky was good enough.
And the other things that went with it.
No shabby, bohemian stuff!
But understand elegance, ethnic chic,
The right setting for the literary crowd.
With a few politicians also invited
To show one was well connected, but not proud.
It didn’t really matter,
If one was too clever or too obtuse,
To participate in the circumambient chatter
About Sarte and Marcuse.
The important thing was
That there are hidden merits,
Which become apparent only after a libation
Of the appropriate spirits.
And so it proved to be the case here.
“I like your poems, so quiet and unpretentious
Yet so delicate and sincere”
(Though at times somewhat sententious!)
The great men thus placated,
Were quick to proclaim the virtues
Of ‘an authentic new voice’
In a hundred gushing reviews.
Now he had to smoke cigarettes without filter
And drink bad coffee.
Be earnest and discursive,
And fashionably sloppy.
And so we find him at last,
Handing out coffee cups with accustomed ease.
Presiding over the literary chatter,
Among smiling ladies.
