When I first started writing poetry
I had read
very little
of the classics,
only what I had
come across
in school⠀
To me, most of the “classics”
were very
foreign
distant
not at all relatable⠀
except for one
small batch
that I tore out
of a high school textbook⠀
There, I met my new friends,
the real, cool kids⠀
Don Marquis’ archy hears from mars
Rudyard Kipling’s If
Emily Dickinson, in all of her
unknown brilliance⠀
Edwin Arlington Robinson,
sharing with me the stories of
Miniver Cheevy and Richard Cory⠀
and my high school sweetheart,
Sylvia Plath⠀
I was not normally one to
deface textbooks⠀
but then, I didn’t want to
leave my friends behind⠀
I still have them today⠀
by the time I started
reading great poets,
geniuses
like Dylan Thomas,
e.e. cummings, Stephen Crane,
Charles Bukowski,
Robert Frost
and dozens of other
superb writers⠀
I had already written
several books worth of
my own poetry⠀
I then realized…⠀
I had
nothing new
to say⠀
It was all just a
re-hash of them,
even though I had never read them⠀
so much
for my grand
contribution
of genius…⠀
of course, by then
I was already entirely too
attached
to my work
and to the art
of writing itself⠀
I was too attached
to go back and
change anything⠀
but I would sometimes wish
that either…
I had never
read those poets⠀
or that I had
never written
anything
of my own⠀
but neither
of these thoughts
was genuinely
honest⠀
and anyway,
by then…⠀
it was
too
late
©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell
From the book on the page – poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans
