Poetry - Of the Shy Poet

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Of the Shy Poet



I would not call myself beautiful.
I am too shy, I do not have the voice
That could meet a mirror’s truth
With confidence. What I will see,
Always, is a body too unique
To fit the mould of that word.

I look, seen, and ‘tall’ is the word
That will pre-empt the tag of ‘beautiful’.
I speak, and that sing-song, flutey voice
That I dread to hear is another truth,
Another prejudice met when people see
Me blond. Silent, I might be unique.

And the things that make a body unique
Are not always kind. ‘Scar’ is a word
That banes me. Pocks are not beautiful,
Nor is clumsiness, and with the voice
Of knees and elbows, skin tells only truth
For waiting mirrors and eyes to see.

And oh, the list of flaws my harsh eyes see!
A nose like not enough putty, more bland than unique,
A mouth too big, lips smothering whatever word
I now squeak, a profile flat and pudgy in a beautiful
Clump on too much neck, smothering my voice
To shy murmuring. Harsh eyes find harsh truth.

But do you think me hurt by harsh truth?
I do not seek to make flaws where I do not see
Any already at home. I know that ‘unique’
Dignifies, deifies, and demonizes in a word.
My eyes will not find me beautiful
And quietly, I let my hands take up a voice.

In the scratch of pencil, I give my voice
To another, and another. In truth,
This is more valuable, to let others see
What I see beneath. This is more unique,
For you cannot hold a mirror to a word
Or an idea. It can only be beautiful.

Pray, find 'beautiful' – though not in the voice
Of a physical truth. Aspire, instead, to see
Through a flawed body unique, my offering of words.


(sestina)