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Old Writer

 

Our television crew arrived today,

To celebrate his age of eighty-five,

Perhaps surprised that he was still alive.

The film ‘Nigel Thing at work, rest and play’

Was always bound to be a non-event.

All we got was a sedentary old gent.

 

The foppish young admirers had left

To chatter somewhere down near Charing Cross,

The critics had forgotten who he was,

His last book was too bland and ‘lacking heft’.

An old friend sometimes knocked to scrounge a beer;

When by himself he sighed and shed a tear.

 

Three-times divorced, with offspring who don’t care,

This angry, once-young literary ace

(‘I almost got to be on “Face-to-Face”’)

Read out his script and growled up from his chair.

As cameras were packed and sun went down,

We grudgingly helped on his dressing gown.

◄ Love in Winter

The Peppers ►

Comments

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Stephen Gospage

Thu 2nd Sep 2021 17:02

Thanks to John, Tom, Stephen A., Holden and Pete for liking this poem and to M.C. for the very kind comments.

Needless to say, the poem was about no one in particular but concerned someone in general. Who that someone is I don't know and perhaps don't really want to, for fear that it would spoil the illusion (or delusion?).

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M.C. Newberry

Thu 2nd Sep 2021 13:10

An engaging pen-portrait of an all-too believable scenario.
I think the last line is perfect to end this literary "visit".

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