He thanks them for blessing his flesh, with the gift of
poetry.
He ponders - how many moments to pay respect have been
squandered;
While his spirit and flesh, have steadily searched and wantonly
wandered.
With that humble homage and those overdue dues paid,
He begins his vocalization – which up till now has been
stayed.
Many verses his heart has complied, in the dark of the night
-
Yet, how can other`s see beauty, in what he may expose and
write;
When all the art is revealed, without the slightest visibility
of light.
Anonymity leaves his mind feeling completely compressed;
Obscurity leaves his ability sunken, sullen, and suppressed
-
His spirit utterly depressed, and logic totally repressed.
He traveled through New York`s ambiguity and The Wasteland,
Channeling and funneling T.S. Elliot into his moving hand.
He Frost`s all his artistry with layers of interpretation,
Complex in the obvious – senses of signification.
In his dream within in a dream, he could see no foreboding
Raven;
Only observing nothingness, only the formless verses - not graven.
The source of his beauty, is not found in his concrete
refractions
(Though the course of the rhythm for many, is the initial attraction
The use of internally cast and end-rhyme or repetitive repetition);
But, in the vast variety viewed in his verbal abstractions.
He attained a level of comprehension and an apprehension,
though not formally trained;
Despite the lack of collegiate experience, intellectually
stimulating movements are framed.
In this state; the adept, astute, artist sat upon his usual
stoop -
Infinite possibilities enveloped, and circumscribed his mind
in a loop.
“Should the verses contain traces of geometry or astronomy?
Perhaps psychology, philosophy, or theology”?
He settled for a transmutation, a combination – Alchemy.
His hand began to formulate the recipe
(Instructions for his newest generation);
He delineated, under a perfect jet canopy,
The constructions of a metrical creation.
Using his life of silent study, and diligent observation,
As the main ingredient of his versified equation;
He hoped no adolescent adulteration or pointless pollution,
Would be perceived or received in this simple solution.
In his potion, the energy of the terrestrial sphere surges;
There, in his conscious, a celestial burning bush emerges.
Lyrics are Moses, as his thoughts multiply and grow,
There is a silent refrain, saying: “Let my bard`s go”.
The movement of these verses are driven forward without
Any actual life; they are fueled by cold fusion,
The words which a mind disperses - when it`s freezing out
The art of eloquent articulation
and diffusion.
The evocative power of all poetic
poesy is expansive and empirical,
It`s impossible to measure the provocative
potential of the lyrical.
No measure for meter, forget the function
of a foot;
These dimensions in our space are now
obsolete and kaput.
He re-read between the lines, and looked among the letters;
Wondered if this tincture, would be enough to impress his betters.
He hoped that good taste and tact
would be remembered
When this tonic is imbibed, and each
flavor dismembered.
Appreciating all beauty which is
found, (in non- and) rhythmic sound
Of the other poets who inspire and
astound, as their lyrics compound.
The creation of each of his poems, openly conceals his
life`s objective;
His purpose in the lines, which are subject to each person’s
perspective.
They say the ends justify the
means, all love he must send
To poetry, which is all which gives his life meaning in the end.
Composed By: Andrew Drucker
