METAPOETICS II/VI
by Will de Kypia




The Poet Smitherick
Meets The Muse

My Dear Loyal Francis K. Smitherick
Lifetime Platinum Tier Fan Club Member,

I wish to share with you this recollection of a
significant episode in my literary apprenticeship
which should be of some interest to those who
have appreciated my poetry over the years.

~

I saw her very late on a rainy Friday
night in a nearly empty 25/7 taverna.

She sat alone at the bar, sipping a
fizzy drink with a bright red cherry in it
and flaunting her perky pentameters.

I approached her with desperation
and hope. My earnest attempts to write
poetry were invariably dismal failures.

The Fates had apparently condemned
me to be a mute, inglorious "no one" stuck
in a prosaic world of monotonous gray.

A failed poet who was unable to make
the unicorns fly or the rainbows sing.

“I want—”
I started off.

“We all want!”
she snorted back.

“Yet I can't seem to—”

"Your want lacks talent.”

“But I bet if you'd let me—”

“In your wet dreams, wannabe.”

“Of course I understand that a modest
emolument is usually expected when—”

“Dinner and drinks will buy you the right
to unzip my toga and ogle my pentameters.
For lobster and bubbly you may fondle.”

“Plus one Polaroid to show that we truly—”

“OK, you can throw in dessert though the
picture will not be of archival quality.

Chemical changes cause the colors
to shift and fade. The emulsion will
dry out, crack, and then flake off.

Soon nothing will remain of our
encounter except your puerile
and delusional fabrications.”

“I adore heirlooms and
believe that the patina of
age enhances the esthetic—”

“You don't know the difference
between the patina of age
and a bent rusty nail.”

“I do not need to know a
thing about nails. I'm going
to be a poet, not a carpenter.

I'll listen to the stones, listen
to my soul, then compose
transcendent poetry."

🎼

“You'll never be a poet, you'll
probably become a plagiarist who
steals the words of real poets."

“You'll never return to Parnassus,
not after what you did there last time,
you'll probably end up in Hades.”

“Poetaster.”

“Bitch.”

“Dabbler.”

“Tramp.”

“Lout.”

"Slut."

“Loser.”

“Whore.”

“You are such a bore.
I'm getting hungry now ,
also thirsty. Let's eat.”

"And drink."

~

So one dark and stormy night
the Muse and I supped together.
We shared more than a meal.

Our tryst was the experience
that first placed me on the path
to becoming what I am today.

I shall always be grateful for
the Muse's bountiful generosity
to me and thus to you, my readers.

Yours pridefully,
Francis K. Smitherick_
PS She had the lobster, I nibbled brisket,
and we both drank a lot of champagne.

She got a little crème fraîche too.


🦞_..🥂