Some years ago

Some years ago

To stroke the egotist

It was before the thickening of the skin

Around my heart

When the colour of my cheeks

Was still as changeable as the weather

Never an easy decision

Critics came out from behind

A hole in the ozone

Stealing my metal jacket

Demanding I make changes.

One rubber-nosed

Push back

Re-read the piece

Told me to remove a few lines

To keep it brief

Who did I think I was

John Milton,

It certainly didn’t feel like paradise to me

He read a few lines of his own,

‘There was a sourness

In the air

The shadow of death

Laid low my temperate mood

Too late I realised

The devil

Had stolen my good fortune’

I thought he was stretching

His point of difference

But found some solace

In his bland pomposity

Even later when I acquiesced

Acknowledged his point and took out

A few lines

Admitting to myself

That it did sound better

Ran straight through,

With better balance

A good flow and metre

Not that I would have given him the satisfaction

Of conceding,

It would never be read again

For all of my bombast

I really was so easily offended

It was just too embarrassing

To admit my mistake

Is naivety such a crime

When the truth was

That when it came to it

I was glad of the intervention

After all, the original idea

Was never his but mine

Which I guess must mean something

Although probably not as much as it might

There is a lesson

In there somewhere

If only I could see it,

Perhaps as we get older

We need to keep space free

For supplementary learning

Not so much about poetry

But more about

The way we see ourselves

In or out of the spotlight