Strange to sit in a room
brimming with writers
arranged by two rows
of chairs in an arc —
so foreign to the act:
where we all sit alone
with pen and paper
in a crowded waiting room
or a restaurant or bus
or cell; or with keyboard
and monitor in a corner —
we are always alone.
But here writers range
focused on the stark podium
from which will issue
proclamations:
these are my words
I stake my being on
these words;
I live or die here.
I pour my brain
into the pool of light:
there in the plate with
my head and heart;
I wait for the chattering
in my knees to stop
I strip the final fabric
out of my mask
and bare raw bone.
Hail, Caesar!
We who are about to read
Salute You!
I begin to move my lips:
each utterance is
wrong, fails to sound
remotely familiar —
who wrote this crap?
It is over
the emperor’s thumb hides
in the folds of his sleeve.
Ain’t it the truth? Love the title! Writers are indeed there awaiting a thumbs up from the emperor (the reader); thumbs down sends us to the lions who love to gobble us and our words up (the critics?). I truly think this is one of your better poems. Thanks.
Rosemarie
Thanks, Rosemarie: coming from a writer of your output, high praise; I know you have been there. The idea came from my experience attending a writers’ society meeting Monday evening: just about everyone read something; many of them were visibly nervous. I really like reading to an audience, so my nerves were minimal, but I knew what they were feeling just the same. I think I am more nervous sending my work out, but that is just me.