Poetry

‘A Night of Poetry’ and other poems

By: Dan Fitzgerald

A Night of Poetry

I can’t write the poetry that you read
to your friends at dinner parties.
I use too many coarse words
and phrases for polite company.
So I sit in silence
waiting for you to end
with the heavy emphasis
on the last word of the verse.
Then I look up from my hands
as if in reflection,
while those around ask for copies,
or sigh in nodding.
The food is good.
I am glad to hear poetry
being read around a table
even with just a few to hear.
But when the evening is over,
the goodbyes all said,
I go home to my desk,
picking up this pen
to write words I heard
all evening in my head.
No matter. Sometimes I write for others.
Most of the time, it is only for me.

###

Ordinary Man

Somewhere a writer laments
his words are misunderstood.
Elsewhere, a jester laughs
at the mischief caused by misspellings.
Thru it all, perhaps, a poet is pleased
his scratching provoked these thoughts.
Alone in a grave, thinking of all the words
that could have been spoken,
an ordinary man wishes
for another chance to say more.

###

Poem Not Written

There is poetry
tonight.
I can hear it
strongly calling
but
I can not move the pen
across the paper to record
my mind’s dictation.

I know,
listening to the words,
to the verses
writing inside me
that they are only to be
in the ink of my imagination.
If I rise to write them for tomorrow,
they will disappear,
leaving a pen poised hopelessly
over blank paper.

So I write in my mind,
casting the spell of words
to my own satisfaction,
hoping that some will remain
for another day.

###

Writing A Few Words

Was that what all this is about?
the not sleeping, the need for
a drink of water, standing at a sink
staring at the moon?
All a ruse to coax, to conjure,
to pause long enough
for words to form a sentence,
ink to find the paper,
a hand to move across a page.
All conspiring
to give this night an ending,
a day, long lasting, some meaning.
That is what it was all about,
just so the hand can stop moving,
the ink can finally dry on paper,
and a few words, created,
can rest, satisfied with a sentence.

Categories: Poetry

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