On visiting the home of Anna Akhmatova and taking offense at the recorded tour guide refering to non-poets as the “average man Philistine.”
I’m just a poet; these are just my words
I like the way they sound like little songs
They’re not the little songs of little birds
But I decide where every word belongs
Yes, Anna Akhmatova was one too
They’ve filled her rooms with words she never said
The “average man” a “Philistine.” Who knew?
Her home could be offensive, now she’s dead
Was Anna like Delilah? I think not.
My hair’s too short for anyone to cut
My blood smells like the bloody words I’ve got
You think I’m full of shit? I’ll tell you what
My silence is the sound of poet’s grace
But only Anna’s words should fill this place.