by George Anderson
His head full of poems
he dared not write
he hated how they gurgled up
from some aberrant tributary of the brain
he hated how they spate venom. After
twenty-two years of teaching
the same questions
the same answers
on King Lear
Kubla Khan
The Doll’s House.
Why the sober, passionless dance of literature?
And what of Montreal?
And Auckland? Sydney? Bangkok?
Each stories within stories.
Now as before
the same recalcitrance
the same procrastination:
You can’t write about that yet
And what will they think
What about the fear?
There will be plenty of time later
Maybe when you’ve retired-
When the sap has congealed
The venom on the wind.
***
In July 2008 Erbacce Press published a chapbook of George Anderson’s poems, ‘Dancing On Thin Ice.’ Available at Erbacce Press.Â
