I awoke with two poets in my bed,
Books I chose from the library, possibly
Intent on a swift read while schmoosing
For poetic leads. My motives are appallingly
Plain, a head bereft of fine ideas although
Biographies are not an easy reading.
I picked Siegfried Sassoon instinctively (not
For any cogent reasons, I liked him in his
Uniform though his name may cause
A resonance), and William Butler Yeats
Who sat nearby within an easy reach,
So I took him too. I flicked them through,
Scanned a few pages, gazed at the ancient
Pictures, yawned, left them on the bed
And rediscovered them this morning.
Now I have two books to read
On the hidden lives of immense poets,
Written no doubt by excellent biographers
Intent on doing their subjects proud.
It unnerves me that what I am about to do
Is discover who lurks behind their pretty poems.