Poetry collection

On hearing a writer's work

On hearing a writer’s work

 So good, so very good,

I listen and hang my head,

nothing to compare to it,

nothing.

I have tried,

but will never reach that high.

A light blinding in on me,

a truth,

a revelation,

a thing of beauty,

true genius opened out before me

the rarest of budding flowers.

I can never equal that,

those words,

the phrases uttered,

the style,

the pace, the flow.

I, a mere pebble to that marble sculpture,

a mere splash to that tidal wave.

That I should hear this at the end of all,

at the very last,

and have it driven home

that greatness was right there

in the same room as I,

with it’s own voice.

a true voice,

in the teeth of howling pretence

one true voice,

a joy, a privilege,

a bright flame,

but not mine.