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Ode to Poetry

Posted to Poetry

Ode to Poetry

It all started when I found Whitman
frolicking amid leaves of grass,
celebrating the glory of being
in free verse unstrictured by rhyme,
fountains in pools transcendent,
sublime, unsullied by all but the poet's heart.

Unbridled, I forged outward and found,
in the structure of Poe, laments
beautiful, exposing the soul.
Lenore a symbol of truth,
youth departed, and the death of hope;
the raven eternal would call nevermore.

Others came rapidly, Williams, and Yeats,
Dickinson, Khyam, Emerson, too.
I read for pleasure on winter nights.
Dallying with Childe Harold
on sweet Albion's shore,
and raging against darkness with Dylan T.
in meter and rhyme, whiskey and wine.

Ezra Pound was out of St. Elizabeth's
angry and old, whipping out Cantos
against the politics of gold.
But, most, I found his translations sublime,
Li Po, Confucius, eyebrows painted green
are a beautiful sight, the fish hawk saith.

The modernists by Ferlengetti led
at City Lights a rebel band,
of Duncan, Ginsburg, Bukowski and ilk
proclaiming the rights of man,
transparent and harsh silk,
lashing savage songs straight to the gut—indiscreet.

Ultimately, I'll do what I must,
uncap the pen and chip off the rust,
for the music I hear
echos from Calliope's lyre.
Or is it the barmaid
pouring another beer?