Establishment Poets

dedicated to some great old boys

I would like to be an establishment poet:
dry, yet fruity, mature and snooty.
Secure in my erudite know-it-all talent—
a profoundly delicate voice of my times.
A universalist, deep-voiced, androgynous
flirt with both sexes, and dropper of names.

Classical themes, updated for irony,
would hint at more knowledge
than most of us claim. My third wife
would be independently famous.
Whatever the game is I'd lazily win.

Disillusioned and sorrowful, handsome
and weathered, I'd write allegorical
darkish political, coyly historical satires
and sonnets and sometimes a minimal
acidic epigram verging on cynical.

Loyally tethered to scenes of my boyhood
I'd tell of harsh living with rustic sincerity,
and wartime experience with modest integrity.

Age would not wither me nor custom stale
my infinite gift of being photographed
well at publisher's launches, where wind
in high places would set me a sale, a sale, a sale.

© Janet Kenny