On Poets

We emerge, I suppose, in the dark.
Poets, of all artists, are not cut out
for celebrance. We do not walk
the red carpets, or have the x factor.

Rebellious girls, un-shapen boys.
Railway men with Old World views,
hysterical daughters of middle-class homes.
The mad, the bad, the poor, insane.

We bud like fungi up from Hell,
to stake a claim in God’s clearing.