Poetry and poverty go together, the saying goes; this poem explores this bleak idea. The narrative is set in an ancient Chinese context.**
Old Man Poet you’ve grown a rich self while your body grows weary and your vision fades; all your friends Old Man Poet have hoarded silver and gold and all you’ve done is to sing and grow old
you’ve not accumulated and you’ve not gathered though the dust gathers on your scroll of poems; your songs are stolen and sung even now in distant villages but passed on in new names Ah, Old Man Poet you’ve discovered too late and don’t care though nobody pays for poetry and nobody reads such stuff unless it’s flattery and free; and though your songs may live after you die and they might sing it over your grave and though villagers may sing it as they sow and reap it will all go in the wind anonymous and unknown all that when you die, when you die, Old Man Poet, Old Man Poet - but now, just days more when you are frail who will feed you, who will take care of you, Old Man Poet, Old Man Poet?
ah, Old Man Poet your neighbors call you useless; your friends ask you if you need handouts and your wife mocks you and your children pour scorn in your empty bowls and still you sing your songs and you sit in marketplace corners and you sing with your er-hu and still you sing of sunsets and sunrise and the rise of empires and the end of loves - but who will feed you, Old Man Poet? what will you do when they put you in a corner when you’re too weak and there’s no one to wipe the ******* your pants?
Old Man Poet you’ve grown a rich self while your body grows weary and your vision fades; all your friends Old Man Poet have hoarded silver and gold and all you’ve done is to sing and grow old