CHEAP WINE

This next poem expresses some of my angst regarding the current state of poetry. We have great poets out there, but nobody is reading them. They are forgotten. I shudder to imagine what will happen when the neglected poets of the world finally stop writing.

The world needs poetry more than ever. It's the language of the universe. Of creation. Of love.

CHEAP WINE

The poet is an organic recorder,
a two penny transcriber—an empty goblet
waiting to be filled with intoxicating words.
He is a cheap wine, offering brief euphoria
for those willing to partake—but he’s also
the morning hangover and nausea—the
twisting sickness in the stomach that
occurs whenever somebody tastes
the acerbic bitterness of Near Truth.

That is why, more often than not,
the poet is left on the shelf,
forgotten and dusty, idly fingered
by many, but ingested only by drunkards
and college students.

-- Noah Evslin