Thursday, March 02, 2006


I am not my art,
It is unlike me,
though born we two
of grand artistry.
United in trips
unattainable by foot,
each time hand to pen,
then paper put.

That Vern should n’er have traveled
not even one league,
nor Norris, in miserly theft
before scribbling McTeague,
Stevenson in absence of a treasure lost,
only in halcyon stupors did Carroll,
such a wonderland cross,
Keats – no primacy found
in any Grecian urn,

or Shelley in Blanc,
beyond the sojourn,
revived in print,
Mitchell’s Atlanta decayed,
Tennyson charged imaginary
onto his light brigade.

And if, no Bohemian, am I,
as wanton wandering Toulouse
what intrinsic value
from this may one deduce?
that, like fool and wallet,
art and artist are easily parted,
the tempest stirred,
words maelstrom thusly started.
Still I reinstate what I said before,
not that miserable pleasure to write,
but revel from within
each conflicted delight.


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