A poet wrote a lot of stuff <br />but no one liked to read it, <br />yet he had judged it good enough <br />and that's how he succeeded. <br /> <br />Some critics, quite articulate, <br />pronounced it so clichéed, <br />they acted 'up-themselves' a bit, <br />their faces looked dismayed. <br /> <br />Big words came tumbling from their lips, <br />line breaks, also free verse. <br />They talked at a staccato clip, <br />their verdict was a curse. <br /> <br />The people read his poetry <br />and begged that he write more, <br />each afternoon, at half past three <br />they'd wait outside his door. <br /> <br />He dropped them from the windowsill <br />just as he wrote them down, <br />the crowd reached from the Barley Mill <br />right to the edge of town. <br /> <br />The critics lost their voices then, <br />(that must have been God-given) , <br />the citizens all voted 'ten'. <br />The poet? He was driven.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/talent/
