[Glenn Wright]

The Writer to His Poems

You homely children of my witless brain,
brought forth into the light with labor and pain,
all well-deserved, considering my sin.
Still, I feel my shame in burning skin.

I stood upon the scaffold holding you,
and let the judging mob give their review.
I tried to dress you all in decent garb
to shield you from the sting of each sharp barb.

I trimmed the toenails of your little feet;
limping and bloody you waddled down the street.
And when I cleaned you up in face and limb,
I threw you in the pond to sink or swim.

Some readers shun you in mute disapproval.
A few express a wish for your removal.
More find a way, by asking thoughtful questions,
to offer useful help and kind suggestions.

Most of you sink into the workshop mire;
deprived of air and light, you soon expire.
You few, bumped to the surface, find your breath,
escape the Slough of Despond and wretched death.

I send you out to little magazines,
as do a million author-Magdalenes,
hopeful that you will find a loving reader
whose day your words will render a bit sweeter.
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Edits:
S1L4: yet, still, I feel your shame in my thin skin. > Still, I feel my shame in burning skin.
S2L1: I’ve > I
S3L2: waddle across > waddled down
S3L3: have cleaned > cleaned
S3L4: throw > threw
S5L4: certain > wretched