The Confident Troubador
He praises her eyes.
He praises her lips.
He imagines her pale, experimental breasts.
He calls for his guitar,
for other men with drums.
He calls for some small, unvarnished instrument.
And oh her life is monotonous.
In her father’s house the corridors
are swarming with moths and profit
while down at the river’s edge
the man is building
his armful of flowers.
Oh he is singing again.
But he cannot sing in tune.
She will hide in her sister’s room!
But now he is singing again.
‘The Confident Troubador’ is from Bill Manhire’s collection, Lifted. I managed to get my hands on a preloved copy a few months ago, and this was one of my favourite poems form the collection. There is nothing like his understated humour. VUP have just put out a volume of Manhire’s selected poems so that’s something to get my hands on.
For other Tuesday Poems check out the hub.