Monday, August 1, 2011

Poetry Monday

What the Chairman Told Tom
by Basil Bunting
Poetry? It’s a hobby.   
I run model trains.
Mr Shaw there breeds pigeons.

It’s not work. You dont sweat.   
Nobody pays for it.   
You could advertise soap.

Art, that’s opera; or repertory—   
The Desert Song.   
Nancy was in the chorus.

But to ask for twelve pounds a week—   
married, aren’t you?—   
you’ve got a nerve.

How could I look a bus conductor   
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?

Who says it’s poetry, anyhow?   
My ten year old   
can do it and rhyme.

I get three thousand and expenses,   
a car, vouchers,
but I’m an accountant.

They do what I tell them,   
my company.   
What do you do?

Nasty little words, nasty long words,   
it’s unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.

They’re Reds, addicts,   
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.

Mr Hines says so, and he’s a schoolteacher,   
he ought to know.
Go and find work.

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