Poem: Bohemian Street

Bohemian Street

By Craig Kurtz
QuailBellMagazine.com

“‘Tis not enough, ye Bards, with all your art,
To polish poems; they must touch the heart:
Where’er the scene be laid, whate’er the song,
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep,
Whiche’er may please you — anything but sleep.
The Poet claims our tears; but, by his leave,
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve.”
— Lord Byron, Hints From Horace.

We’ll have no wine,
the art is strong enough;
your masterpiece, complete,
is all we need to celebrate.
Rice and beans and coffee
were discretions we required;
saving every cent we could
for your canvas, consummate.

What do we remember now
of our day jobs, vapored time;
every waking thought we fired
was for art, and poetry.
I would scrawl, my pen bemused,
as you alchemized pigments;
in the background, Mozart played,
reminding us what’s numinous.

Hear the raccoons on the roof
and the squeaking of bed springs;
there’s no doubt our home’s a dump,
at least the part outside our thoughts.
Our address isn’t in the book,
our claims to fame are signed in clouds;
you’ll find a trace in used bookstores,
and makeshift galleries, betimes.

We’ll have no wine, no dinner out,
our furniture will be ill-used;
yet we’ll gasconade like swells,
portraits paired with epopees.
An opening in some dim loft,
a musty bookshelf, thus consigned;
where ever the impracticable
is adamant, you have the place.

#Unreal #Poetry #CraigKurtz #BohemianStreet #Wine #SqueakingBedSprings #Art #TheLife #LordByronSwag
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