CLOSET POET


Although I wrote poems for twenty years
I showed no outward signs
of being a poet;

my hands didn't tremble with excitement
my eyes weren't bloodshot
from burning the midnight oil.

I was married to the muse
but even my wife didn't suspect
I was a secret bard.

I hid poems under the bed,
under the floorboards on occasion.

The night came when I had to admit
I had a mistress and her name was poetry,
and she wouldn't let go of me!


I attend poetry readings now.
My wife comes along to keep
a gentle eye on me.

I'm glad I can speak openly now
about feminine rhymes
line breaks
and enjambment.

I'll always be a poet,
can't change that;
one verse leads to another,
so I stay clear of bookshops.

Friends say I should take up haiku,
but shorts are definitely out.

Granted, I'll have an occasional ballad
just to be sociable
but gone are the days
when I'd write all night -

into my life a measure of sanity
has been poured.