The savage ode ...

From time to time, I've written poetry - I reckon there's about twenty poems saved on my lap top - each one is my own precious creature - I hunted each word, I shaped each sinew - 

I was nervous, therefore, when Richard told me Maggie had invited me to a poetry workshop - 

What poem should I choose to read? What judgements might these published poets make?

I sat amidst Richard's archives, whilst he wrote out a neat copy of his latest poem - through the gap in the curtains, I could glimpse parked cars and the terraced houses opposite, each one with its poignant history, its narrow rooms full of ghosts - 

Looking for a photocopier, we went into a tiny shop, near The Golden Eagle - it was  fragrant with the smell of curry - a sad eyed Bangla sat beside the till - Richard told me that he used to wheel Kate here in her buggy, a world ago - 

We found a photocopier in a computer joint on Albert Road, snarfed a heady dhal in the Balti House - 

Maggie drove us to the workshop - you could hear the song of the M27 outside the house -

The judgements made of my poem were just, spoken gently, yet they hit their mark - I learned much - 

The next morning, Richard and I went for a stroll along Southsea front - the icy sea rolled over sharp pebbles - benches in the rose garden had brass plates commemorating beloved dead people - 

We saw a metal door, with a savage ode daubed upon it -

Who was the poet, I wondered - what strange fires burned within his eyes?