The Poet
					- Douglas Downie
		Take a poet,
		any old poet,
		and give him something to write.

		And what does this poet,
		this any old poet,
		have he is able to write.

		A poet must sit and think for a while,
		before he has an idea.
		This idea may be good,
		this idea may be bad,
		If it's bad then the poet is sad.

		If he has an idea,
		and the idea is really grand,
		then the poet who wrote it is glad.

		This very glad poet,
		who knows that he wrote it,
		is never willing to sell.

		So he writes and he stores them, 
		and others deplore them,
		and he tears and he throws them away.

	. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
	
	The room there was dark .
	and filtered frequently
	with tongues of confusing light.
	The air stood silent
	But, somewhere within that silence
	I heard a sound,
	A sound that drew me,
	as a scent draws a hound
	and as the fruit drew Eve.
	It was then I saw him,
	I had seen him before,
	But, never through God's eyes
	had I seen through him.
	His eyes were a menangerie of colour
	but somewhere in that colour
	I saw a gap.
	Wide enough only, for
	the exploring curiosity of the soul.
	My soul explored to find
	a wide open space
	In another's baffled mind.