But you’ve accomplished so much, she says again quite sincerely,
and while my lips to her a smile compose to tender hearty gratitude,
in truth am I unmoved by such unsolicited, discomforting praise,
wondering at the ridiculous ease with which we unintended deceive.

Shall I speak? Then listen. I confuse not the words I have penned
with the tomes of true poets whose majesty endures yet, laid bare
on tables and desks and cottony laps, spouted and sputtered still
by even ungracious tongues bound again and again to repeat them.

Compare not my impatient colors to the sloppiest renderings of laymen
artists—a word I use but guardedly—who even now of a quiet Sunday
do betake themselves to the Gallery for a stroll and a look and a lick
across the unconstricted canvas of Sargent’s dark and sullen mistress.

The verse of the bard whose words yet challenge the swiftest intellect
would to a bawd feel more akin to the caress of sweet angelic wings
than do my fulsome stutterings which, like pointedly angry quills
would sooner tear at fair flesh than tenderly touch at your needful heart.

There are of late among my acquaintances those whose every musing
is awaited with nearly salacious anticipation by anonymous throngs
who daily suck at the teat of tedium while moaning munificently
of fantastic this and awesome that and even bugger all else besides.

Meanwhile my grand and glorious band of followers consists of one.
One, do you hear? One soul that urges me on to the very heights,
one heart that listens when the world grows complacent and still,
one hand that ceaselessly guides my spirit over the roughest ground.

Were it so that I in eager fancy did compose trite phrases but to please
and thereby fame acquire, then surely would this ignoble tongue have
fallen silent long ago, the mute voice of a spurious soul, bereft of sound,
ashamed to the very core of my insufferable, inescapable banality.

Yet in these dread, dark thoughts that do so oft my heart enclose,
I perceive one bright glowing light, one passionately perfect orb,
steady, hanging still and silent and forever sure in the heavens above.
One voice that calls to me even now with this single message—more.

Salt Lake City, 05 April 2011

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s