He's a Poet who Don't Know It.

[Truerenigma]

my Grand ma used to say back in the 1800's, "he's a poet and he doesn't know it; his feet show it - they're long fellows. her great great grandchildren still say it today *rolls eyes*

---

Thanks for reading and commenting; oh my gosh, but it's not really a common phrase: what I am saying here is that he is too busy trying to be liked to be interested in being a poet. It was his life as an actor which made
his ordinary speech so literary; and he used that appeal for his purposes; popularity. Thanks for reading and commenting. Best, Loretta

Okay, common or not I've heard it an awful lot. Maybe it's just because my family is so goofy - but I had no idea the things we said were so original. I wasn't really saying anything critical about the poem but here, I feel like I owe you one:

So the narrator tells us about a poet who is not really concerned with being a poet but sadly aside from that and the fact that he is aging (aren't we all) we don't really know much about this person as most of the facts are hidden behind poorly formed abstract opinions in mangled syntax.

He's a poet who don't know it;
it's not of relevance to him,
his pride he thinks to stature win.

I have no idea what "his pride he thinks to stature win" means. Forget grammatical, this is not even English. Moreover, I have no idea why the strange nonsensical diction, it's not even a rhyme, and the meter isn't consistent, so we're mangling the diction, syntax and grammar just to put assonance at the end of the line?

He seeks a mentor to guide his place
to please his clique, promote his face.

I could see the mentor guiding placement maybe but, guide his place? Well, it does rhyme...

He seems to want a mentor to promote him. Not to learn. Why not just a promoter?

His mind profound but lacking liberty,
possessed to win applause and flattery.

Normally profound minds are not lacking liberty, so this I get.

On stage he plied the written words of art,
divided from his self part; a broken heart

I think this means that the words were a part of his very being and writing and performing (?) poetry [maybe he's a rapper] is some sort of psychic division of the self for him, which sounds like typical hokum to me.

that questions, is he now upon the stage,
oor words and heart in life engaged?

I guess the question here is whether his whole life is just a performance? I have no way of knowing that though. (the answer, or whether or not that is actually the question!)

For he's a poet who don't know it.
He seeks to best the common place.

His aging ass would like to grace
a comfy padded rocking chair;
with, what else, poetic flair.

Finally something I can bite into. Good image, poetic flair is a bit poetic but not too bad.

For one with practiced wits as he
who casts his nets with subtlety

Strangely we seem to have entered a misplaced fishing metaphor that doesn't fit at all.

and care; he tires then ascends the stair
and breathless falls upon a chair;

Still some strange diction, but at least we have another thoughtful image. Semicolons everywhere.

with age, though aspirations debonair.

More nonsense.

Should he grasp the naked phantom there
and be the poet, and in his glory
smile to know it?

What is this phantom, why is it naked, and why must he smile in order to know it?

Still, it's buried in his heart apart,
and though it sings within his head;

Whatever it is, heart apart makes no sense.

he has no ear to hear, but fears to know it.

It seems as though the writer thinks "ear to hear" "but fear" is clever. Rhymes are fascinating.

Yet, he is on fire within, of life's desires;

within of life's desires?

but seeking safety he conspires
to trample out those restless fires.

Although I find the idea of conspiring against one's desires facinating, this makes no sense.

With all of everything, his age to doubt,
the decades growing thin without;

If you have everything, I think it's safe to assume you have all of it. Are we or is he doubting his age, or is he doubting in this age, eh, whatever. Without what, time? He just had all of eveything

despite what dims the outer rim,

It's probably best that I do not comment on his one.

his secret treasure hides within, and sadly
still, he's a poet who don't know it.

How sad that he doesn't know that if he works really hard and stabs nails through his eyes daily and struggles without proper hygiene and diet, that if he starves himself and goes without adequate sleep for a very long time and reads and reads and writes and writes and tears it up and starts again with anew nail through the eye he may come out of it with a few lines of near perfection.