It Was Hell and They Sang

The old poet stubbed his cigarette in a plate full of butts.
His hand hovered over the table, trying to decide
between the coffee and the bourbon,
settling at last on the amber glass.

His eyes are rheumy, but they twinkle.
He scribbles a few lines in a notebook.
He had been telling me about picking cotton,
as a child alongside black men who sang as they worked.

“It was hell.” he said. “It was hell and they sang.”
He sipped the bourbon,
always good at the pregnant pause,
“That’s where I learned you can survive
more than you believe you can. And sing,
even if it in only poetry.

About This Poem

I have written a number of these “The Old Poet” poems over the years. The old poet in question is Robert Hazel, who was my first poetry teacher. Robert was a cheerful old reprobate, fond of bourbon, Elizabethan poetry, and coeds. He was also a wonderful poet, documenting the changes in the South with lyrical verse. And, one or two bourbons in, he waxed philosophic. Now and then, things he said come back to me.

If I write enough of them, I may publish a book of them.

Tom