On Poetry and its Criticism

He wore glasses and a neatly trimmed moustache,
With slight hints of beard and carefully unkempt hair.
The sharp looks and a wisely maneuvered silence,
Kept the ladies on their toes.
I had been half in love with him, I'd say,
If not for his mind-numbing pedantry.
The midday sun shined brightly above us
As we sat down by the pool,
Accompanied by cocktails and cigarettes
Discussing politics and poetry.
The extensive discourse on Communism and its failure
Was soon to be followed by some sweaty, sticky parking lot sex
In the impatient back seat of a car.
It was predetermined; a necessary rite of passage.


I distinctly remember discussing the Romantics.
We agreed that Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Was one of the greatest poets that ever lived,
Raised our glasses to the fact that we both hated Wordsworth.
He expressed great dismay at the decadence of contemporary poetry
And read a few of his own poems at my insistence
And an excerpt from the paper that he was going to read
At the university seminar.
Expressing a keen interest in my poems
His eyes sparkled when he warned me
That he was the ruthless critic.
My candour surprised me 
As I read out to him. Aloud. 
My poetry gained audience for the very first time,
Unfettered, from the dark dungeon of a diary.
It was the blissful ecstasy of holding the firstborn
After several agonizing hours of throe
With a note of caution!


He listened with unmitigated attention
Turning only once to light a cigarette. 
Bestowed with an expressionless face 
And a pair of uncommonly large eyes
He never betrayed a hint of any emotion.
Puffing his cigarette casually, he complimented me
On my confident use of metaphors.
And then checked his watch once
And apologised for having to leave me early.
I looked as far as I could, to see his figure disappear.
The fire spewing sun seemed to burn him as he walked.
The sex was deferred till our next encounter.
Poetry was never discussed again.