Miss Fortune And The Poet

Miss Fortune And The Poet long poem

If only I had a döppelgänger,
I’d peacefully live my life of languor,
Entirely at my own sedated pace,
For me he’d run with rats of human race.
Then, entirely at my own leisure,
I could entertain my simple pleasures
Taking pics and writing metered slogans,
Reading pulp, and scribling vers d’occasion.

In earnest, I just didn’t want to work,
When it comes to graft I’m the type that shirks.
I wanted time to stand around and stare,
I wanted life without a bloody care,
I thought the world would be for ever gay,
And hoped that Life was just a game to play.

They often tell me: “Go seek fortune and fame!
Go make an envy of thy mortal name!”
But truly, what are fortunes to the just
‘Cept trinkets? All collectors gather dust!
And what’s the point to glorifying names?
That’s no sure escape from life’s sordid shames;
‘Spite being either cabbages or kings,
We’re merely puppets on Dame Kismet’s strings.

We pray to gods – really suppositions!
We fawn to faiths – merely superstitions!
In life we come, we laud it and survey,
We cry and laugh, then simply pass away.

I meditate – contemplate my hours.
I cast my views from my iv’ry tower.
I watch the local mass – they scurry by,
I stand around and stare – I heave a sigh!
I skin myself a spliff, I lay a line,
And sorting out my mind I write my rhymes.

Fateful Miss Fortune stops my joys to kill,
She dances at my door with wolfish bills;
She revels, she finds my follies funny;
She mocks me, she taunts me over money.

“In youth ye toy’d yet hanker’d to be wise,
The world was black and white within thine eyes,
Ye saw where all paths lead – thought life insane,
Knew want of wealth was greed – thought glory vain.
Altho’ ye know posthumous fame’s foolish
The powers hath granted a childish wish.
Simple scribe, ye are, in all honesty
Making a novelty of poverty!”

She urges me at least to earn a crust:
“Build on Times sand before ye come to dust!”

True Poets, Miss Fortune, are born to starve,
The meat of Life they hardly ever carve.
They eat their own hearts when their souls they bear,
They build on dreams – build castles in the air.

Miss Fortune, if only you’d go away!
I’d try to earn myself a crust today.
O please don’t think what motivates is greed,
All I really want is what I need.
In our fleet lives what more is there to ask?
And sitting down – I set myself to task.

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Malcolm Massiah

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I am a writer. I am shy. I started writing poetry in my youth. I first performed in 1987 at the Avon Poetry Festival along side Bertel Martin of the Bristol Black Writers Workshop, supporting Benjamin Zephaniah.I gave my last poetry performance in 1992 at the Arnolfini gallery Bristol, supporting Labi Siffre during Poetry month.In 1998 for a year, I became the Resident Poet at Bristol Evening Post.I haven't written much since then but in 2014 I began exercising my rusty hand writing sonnets. I hope to continue writing in the coming year.
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Christopher S. Bunch
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I love this, and feel the same about playing into society’s “illusion of progress” as I call it.

I truly was moved by these lines:
“But truly, what are fortunes to the just
‘Cept trinkets? All collectors gather dust!”

You spoke volumes!

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