Stacie's profile

I Can Be Heroes.

Written by Stacie Withers on Friday the 5th of February 2010
In the damned poets darkness, the place we are gathered after all the pens run dry and words that once fell from us have ceased to have meaning, life or flight, I wonder if I shall sit at the table, join the group and share.  Or shall I stand, picking the seams of the wall paper and hoping no one calls on me?  Will Sylvia, Anne, Margaret and Aemilia point and call me fraud?  I have no great weight of reputation to swing at them.  I am a pretender and they will know. If the time comes when a queue forms and we stand with hands outstretched to receive, will I be laughed at and sent to the back of the line to wait and see if there is anything left once those more deserving than I have had their share?  A shiny, silver, spinning coin.  Heads, my work is survives.  Do I even bother, are words worth that much at hand?  Or, if given a second, or two, will I stand and offer the pages to Ted, and Wilf and Seamus in quiet and arrogant defiance? Their suspicious iridescence will impress only As long as I lie.  As long as I read. In the final round, will I be on the ropes, head down and shouldering the worst of the blows?  Or out fighting, spitting, snarling, knashing my teeth and baring my bloody gums as the last thought I shall ever have the chance to speak is hurled from me.  Then, once all the words have been gathered up off the floor, like lost teeth and limbs, will my count be respected as my own or simply a truncated ambition to stand alongside those who outshone me long before I started? Am I a poet or a poets legacy?