Minor Poet, Unemployed by Peter Adair

In the seventh chamber of the dead

where Osiris crouches on his throne,

a young man shuffles into line

 

and hears through marble walls

precise beautiful words –

Hardy, Eliot, Yeats –

 

words to comfort a damned

soul.  But what price today

a post-colonial reinvigoration

 

of a dying tongue,

an ecocentred debate

on modern pastoral, the periphery

 

of the ascetic?  All that balls

he studied with excess of love.

Mythical allusion, the oblique

 

lyric…At 9am on Monday morning,

half-crazed, he recites it in a verse,

laughing at the end of the line

 

while Anubis weighs the scales

and Thoth inscribes the fate

of half the youth of Europe.

..

I live in Bangor, N Ireland. Poems have appeared in The Honest Ulsterman, FourXFour at poetryni.com,The Stare’s Nest, Snakeskin, Panning for Poems and several other online magazines.

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