Greek night

Greek Night

A Greek poet has sent me a collection of her poetry, 344
pages, she must be rich since she has published the book
herself; how we struggle, us poets to be heard, all we get
is the wilful neglect of other poets, and the hopeless love
of our parents. Forty years ago I was in Athens; met in
a café a poet working there, when it closed, there isn’t
any words for it, we hammered out verses on the kitchen
table amongst lettuces tomatoes and onions; the act was
fuelled by ouzo, “to be or not to be,” I fell off the table.

A picture of the lady at the back of the book, telling us of
all the medals she has received, silver and gold, for poetry,
to think I thought poetry was a peaceful affair. I really have
scrutinized her face, nothing there to tell of a sexy encounter
on the oak table at a Greek Café. There must be one other
reason, then my sexual prowess, I’ve tussled to put words
together for fifty years, still wait for the call; “Arise; poet,
you have been accepted by the TLS, and can now rest on
your laurels, fame is assured, and you’ll get a free copy.”