Laureate

Leighton | Icarus and Daedalus | 1869

Leighton | Icarus and Daedalus | 1869

Since the last poem was itty-bitty, and I missed a day or two posting (if it’s three please don’t tell me), here’s one more for tonight. This one actually rhymes! It’s dedicated to the man outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan in December, 2001, who informed me I’d missed my calling as a poet and helped re-start my journey in writing. I forgive you, sir. 😉

.

Laureate

Have you seen this poet write?

It’s a ghastly, tortuous sight

If poets are made of ashes and sweat

Already he should be a laureate

He devours the endless words of masters

Those fond of black, and blue and alabaster

Fingertips as calloused painfully

As his heart rends itself not to be

A collector of candle stubs

And pencil nubs; late at night he rubs

His eyes until they’re red and bleary

He’s seldom rested, often weary

And like some solitary animal nested

Introspective and invested

In what is real inside his mind

(What he makes he thinks he finds)

Like Icarus he soars too high

Comes crashing down the sky

Onto his bed for hours prone

A heap of flesh, sinew and bone

Human again, but before long

Nothing can drown out the siren song

That must again puppet his limbs

And compel from him inspired hymns

.

©2013 Jason Anderson

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