A Poet’s Job
First of all, I didn’t know I had one.
It doesn’t feel like a job,
and certainly the pay
is far below minimum wage,
and there is a dearth
of fame and fortune,
a remnant of readers
who remember to peer
into hearts, their own and others,
are all who bother to look in.
There are no regular hours.
Thoughts ping pong into my head
at the oddest times and rattle around
like some madcap pinball machine,
a kind of madness really,
a frantic dance
of images and ideas and feelings
and sound and love
and inspiration and hunger, lust and lethargy
unable to rest until released.
That then, is the job of a poet,
of this one at least,
nothing wise and profound,
a simple removing of the teakettle from the fire
before it explodes.
About this poem
This was inspired by a fellow writer, who this morning posted a very serious post about an Afghan poet who uses his verse to reveal the plight of his people, and asking the serious question of “What is the Job of a Poet?”
A good question that, and it made me think. But in the end poets and our purposes are like people, infinitely variable. Do I have a purpose? I do. Dozens of them, that vary and dance and mix with other, driving by emotion, life, timing, the world, people around me.
But mostly, it’s an attempt not to have my head and heart explode. Not very noble.
But true.
Tom
PS – The picture is of a set of clock works, taken in May.
Quarry House 
Sir, you capture the life of a poet perfectly, and no wonder as you are one and most likely have been one for way longer than I.
I’m glad I stopped by to read this and I’d like to say that though the job of the poet varies and can be almost anything, I see it that the poet has to speak and write how his eyes see the world.
Once again, thank you for sharing this.