An Apostrophe to Wordsworth’s Period
A POEM
Wordsworth, thou shouldst be living at
this hour.
England hath need of thee, so hath the
United States of America;
Poets and playwrights are angrily spewing
hysterica,
Screaming of sullen Vesuvius soon
to erupt
(Though in truth we might save ourselves
yet if forewarned by abrupt
“Flee like a bird, or stay on to be swallowed
in sludge”)
But the modern prophet is false and he
says, “Do not budge,
For if we should flee to the lake as thou didst surely
some would come skiing
With their transistored ear, motor boated,
and clad in bikinis,
Consigning to deep water pits all the sprites and the
wraiths and the geniis.”
Wordsworth, thy mantle hath fallen. I double it,
striking a blow,
(Which alludes to the prophet Elisha
though few there be lately who know)
And I say to the ones who still hope (there are more of us
left than the false ones admit)
“There are still small pockets of peace
and I’ll find mine and hole up in it,
“And escape the dull world as the true prophet warns,
from Elijah, to Elisha, to Wordsworth, to me,
(And ‘Great God, you’d rather be a pagan suckled
in a creed outworn’
Then imagine my plight more than 200 years
since you were born!)”
Down in south Alabama, the Interstate
bypasses – – – – – (the name of the
town I’m concealing)
But in time, if God wills, with my warmed-over heart
I’ll come stealing,
I’ll talk to the natives; I’ll speak in their
tongue (it is South)
And the word that I heard from the false ones shall
melt in my mouth.
I shall boldly say sentences scoffed at where witch doctors
grovel and grieve,
Beginning with unabashed pronoun and
verb: I BELIEVE.
You May Also Enjoy
He disturbs
The sleeping bells, the stolid sounds
Locked in the iron tower
That hold…
Have mercy, Lord, and by your blood
wash from my brain
the sly recurring pain
…