It’s more than my Words Worth - Alan Ogden
The functionary filled the form
Precisely, in each box a tick.
So far I seemed to match his norm –
He paused and sucked his Crystal Bic.
‘What is your occupation now?’
‘Poet.’, I said, for it was true.
He made a question with his brow.
‘Tell me exactly what you do.’
‘I work with words.’ I began,
‘Words have something more than meaning.
‘Allusions, symbolism, metaphor.
‘Like a whiff of cigar smoke in an empty room,
‘Lipstick traces on a white shirt,
‘The dust you blow off an old book,
‘Fingerprints in the mould of your mind.’
The functionary stared at me.
‘When you listen to language,’ I tried,
‘You hear echoes from the past.
‘The tramp of the legions,
‘The battlecries of the Vikings,
‘The arrogance of the Norman barons,
‘The servility of their peasants.’
The functionary stared at me.
‘I take these traces, these nuances.’ I persisted,
‘I weave a spell for my audience,
‘I give them insights, new perspectives.
‘I tweak their emotions, tease their minds.
‘I entertain, tantalise, amuse, enthral.’
The functionary stared at me; then . . .
I saw the comprehension dawn.
I was delighted, overjoyed.
He bent again to fill his form.
‘I know, I’ll put down “Unemployed”.’
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