Poetry

My early poetry was horrific. As with most bad poets, I as unaware of this fact, secure in my arrogance that the very act of creating gave worth to the worthless abortions I was spawning. Mother remained tolerant even as I left reeking little piles of doggerel around the house. She was indulgent of her only son, even if he was as blithely incontinent as an unhousebroken alpaca.

Don Balthazar never commented on my work; primarily I assume, because I never showed him any of it. Don Balthazar thought that the venerable Daton was a fraud, that Keats and Robert Frost should have hanged themselves with their own entrails, that Woodsworth was a fool, and that anything less than Shakespeare's sonnets was a perversion of the language. I saw no reason to bother don Balthazar with my verse, budding and rife with genius though I knew it to be.

I published several of these little literary turds in the various hardcopy journals  that were in vogue in the various European libraries, the amateur editors of the associated journals being as indulgent of Mother as she was of me. Occasionally I would press John or one of my other playmates to uplink some of my verses to Mars or Jupiter, and thus to the ever growing interstellar colonies. They never replied. I assumed they were too busy.

-Grace

Thank you for visiting. Before you go, please submit a story idea for me to munch on for the next post!