A poem inspired, in part, by listening to interviews with Bob Dylan mixed with reflections on the poetry of James Joyce. Mostly this poem is written as a weird sort of encouragement for other writers. We all go through periods of doubt about what others will think, but, in the end, the only person that can be responsible for what is written is the writer. The buck stops with the person holding the pen, whether he be a poet, novelist or critic. The thoughts of others may help or inspire but writing to please just
A Lowly Life
He led a lowly life, he said
This then-young man tried to make his name
Through works diverse, and tasks mundane
In peaceful places where he could take the time
To consider what was written or read
Or how some text might scan or rhyme
And what words were concealed in which writer’s head
The establishment thought his efforts worthwhile
When he trod their well-worn literary path
They would agree with him and joke and laugh
The methods he used were deemed correct
The subtle symbolism made them smile
Aimed at an audience serious and select
Who could understand both subject and style
But all desires to do something new
Were greeted with requests to toe the line
Suggesting that, though his art was fine
Any search for fame could create ill will
And whatever his entourage might do
Those that by his side stood still
Though they were faithful, they were far too few
He felt his commitment had been totally abused
By the system that established the rules of the game
Criticism, once wise, only sought now to blame
But although he refused to write to
He had never been by his detractors accused
Of seeking to live a life of ease
His lack of concern made his critics confused
Then he left to join a rebellious band
For whom the avant-garde was normal
Whose approach to young artists was far less formal
What he could create with paper and pen
Sent a message to youth throughout the land
Who would glance to the past every now and then
But would not be bullied by the wise and grand
So settled was he with children and wife
That his work became popular and appealing
Readers perceived a more fatherhood feeling
Thus, he could finally, truly attempt
To shuffle off the coil of artistic strife
Which he began to treat with a certain contempt
As he left behind his lowly life
There is no moral to this tawdry tale
Except that hidden within myth and mystery
All logic is lost in young artists’ history
If writers wish to create their own space
But need society’s acceptance in order to prevail
Submission to ambition is their saving grace
And a lowly life is the best way to fail