The Letter

Some years ago I was shown a letter, from a husband to his wife.
She had left him and she let me read what he wrote.
He was a lecturer at a small university, which was proud
To have him, a noted poet. His name was known.
He was also violent, beat her. She was afraid
For herself and for their young son. The university
Did nothing. They knew but did not wish to know.

So she left and came to England with her son.
There I met her and her son. Friends of friends.
An odd boy, very quiet but with no hint of darkness.
They lived in Lincoln with her parents in a strange house,
A gate house to a great estate, tiny rooms with high ceilings,
Grand and meagre all at once.

He followed her and came to that house. But she was out.
Her mother was there and he broke in. He beat her up, the mother;
Put her in hospital, the police were called. Afterwards,
A policeman spoke to them in private. He had met his type,
He said that man could kill.

She showed me a poem that he wrote. Full of solemn words
And hidden meanings - at least so it seemed. For me,
It was opaque. And I read his letter to his wife.
Mean and vicious, full of self pity, recriminations and abuse.
Not even well written. No rounded tones, no deep meaning,
Just a mean and shallow soul.

I have heard it said of Boswell and his book of Johnson’s life,
That he wrote a great book because he was a great fool.
But I do not believe this was so. Was this man a great poet,
Despite this letter window to his soul?

I did not buy his slim volume. His name I do not recall.
His wife and I are no longer close. At some point she took offence,
At some small honesty. I do not think about them
But sometimes I do wonder
Concerning the boy.