A Critic is Born

In the street I met a man famous

For his books.  I said, “You’re a man

Famous for his books, and I’ve

Met you in the street!”  It happened

I had in my pouch some poems.   “I have

in my pouch some poems,” I said.  He read. 

“No good,” he said.  My brain bled.  “My

Brain is bleeding,” I said, bothered. 

“Well there you are, already that’s better!” 

“But I’ve done nothing!”  He said, “And that’s

The poetry you’ll find is best

Received.”  That gave me a thought.  “I have

A thought,” I said.  And he: “It’s shit.” 

Shit?  I bit hard on my lip.  “You bit

Hard on your lip,” he said, “That’s it,

That’s it for sure!”  “Sir?”  “Sir—I’m no

Gentleman.  Your poems are bad and

So must burn.”  Your poems are bad

And so must burn to me was rev-

Olutionary.  “I’m a rev-

Olutionary,” he said, and with

His hot-pink Bic lighter lit my

Poems, and then the revolution’s

Cigarette.  I sat on the curb. 

“Why are you sitting,” he said, “write.” 

“Write,” I said.  I wrote.  One word.  

He shook the paper from my pen:

Hot-pink.  “Work on it,” he said.  I

Said, “Man in the street famous for

His books, may I write you long

Letters?”  “One at a time,” he

Replied, “alphabetically.” 

Later that year of no

Correspondence nor paper

Ballots he published a book. 

I bought a copy and on

The bus-stop bench read it

Straight through.  All the poems

Were mine.  I loved every bit. 

Ian Bean Moore is the book critic for the Smoky Mountain Sentinel.  He currently lives outside of Asheville, NC.