The Ladies Have It
He held court in the corner of the pub,Pint in hand, opinions polished,
Like old brass on a mantelpiece,
“Only a lady,” he’d say,
“knows true art”
And he’d nod as if delivering,
A decree from Mount Ephraim itself,
He’d ignore the blokes entirely,
Their sonnets, their haikus,
they're earnest metaphors about rain,
Not a flicker of interest,
Not even a grunt,
But let a woman pick up a pen,
let her rhyme moon with June,
Or write a line about the colour of a sigh,
And he’d lean forward,
Eyes shining like he’d discovered,
A lost manuscript behind the Pantiles,
He’d praise every stanza,
Every pause,
Every breath between the words,
As if she alone had unlocked,
The secret machinery of the universe,
Some said he was daft,
Some said he was harmless,
Some said he simply liked the way,
A woman shaped a sentence,
The way she shaped everything else,
With quiet certainty,
And a touch of danger,
But he never explained himself,
Never justified the rule,
He just tipped his hat, (I don’t own a hat)
To every lady poet who passed,
And left the rest of us wondering,
Whether he was a fool,
A romantic,
Or the only one paying attention.
Poetry by JohnJohn
Read 10 times
Written on 2026-03-21 at 10:06
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William Hughes |
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Griffonner |
