The Poet’s Second Lesson

The old poet looked you in the eyes
as he poured the bourbon in his class,
the ice crackling as the amber spirits
splashed over the milky white cubes.

“Always tell the truth.” the old man said
as he tilted the bottle up, ending the flow
at just the right spot before it spilled
over the top lip of the glass.

“They recognize the truth,
more than you realize.
and it will echo in their souls
like God’s whispering.”

He took a sip. Then another.
“Always lie.” he said as he breathed in
the sharp alcoholic tang.
“They want to believe the lie

and it will dance like Satan’s stripper,
slow and seductive.
They will know it is a lie, but lie well,
and they will not care.

which is which.”

About this poem. 

For some reason recently, I have found myself remembering my first poetry teacher, a wonderful poet, mediocre teacher, and extremely tortured soul named Robert Hazel.

He did not share these exact lessons, but he had a tendancy to say the outrageous in a way that later made you go… hmmmmm, and these two poems capture his essence, if not his words. The first lesson was in a poem I wrote not too long ago, The Poet’s First Lesson.

Will this turn into a series? I have no idea. Heck, I don’t even know what constitutes a series. But surely, it is more than two.

Tom