The Old Poet Speaks of Blood

The old poet takes a drag from his cigarette.
Ashes fall on the floor.
He chases it with his breakfast bourbon.
A smile crinkles his face.

“The poet’s job is to bleed.” he says.
“to bleed all over the carpet
and make people believe
it’s art.”

About this poem

Over the years I have written what has turned into a series of poems about my first poetic mentor, the North Carolina poet, Robert Hazel, a bourbon-swilling, coed chasing, improper-on-every-front poet of immense talent. Forty some odd years later, some of the things he said to me still burble up.

Tom