The Stuff Of Poets (Poetry)

Maybe I should grey my hair
wear lightly tinted specs
take on a distant, vague, distracted air
and fake benign — relaxed
like wisdom is my forté
a defence
against the half-expected snub
be tolerant of bland/blasé
displays of lavender-scented cool
indifference.

I should, I know, plump for a tweed
and purchase soon a comfy pair
of Miss Greer’s near-famous fuck-me shoes
I think I need
a well-considered face
and focused attitude
because I either try too hard
or keep too quiet
I should be weightier and boast a little
not on some salt-free literary diet
but primed to toss at random
a selection of the most unnecessary classical allusions in
every chance I get
plus a bit of ripe controversy
like hand grenades
for maximum effect.

I should gather budding wrinkles
not fight them off
for they add character
along with a hacking writer’s cough —
too many late nights spent
worrying at lines
hunched shoulders, bosom drooped —
the image that defines.

I’ve always failed to blend
the way I am sets me apart —
catalogued as neither foe nor friend
they have a code I cannot start to break
a clique — a post-grad hub
that spins its old girl network
I’m so not right for their prize-laden
lisle-stockinged club.

Swathed in yards of scarves
a hand-knit cardigan
I quite obviously (from its state) must dig the garden in
a borrowed antique walking stick
a hint of sherry on my breath —
this ensemble might just do the trick
convince them I’m mature enough
to mingle in the thick
drop book launch anecdotes concerning famous folk
and strut my winning
I’m-a-pukka-poet stuff
like I am one of them.