PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

John Milton . . . Wallace Stevens . . . through your poems,

I have learned more about real Poetry

than ever I had hoped to know on that

Monday, October thirteenth, of nineteen

seventy-five when I thought (despite

parental disapproval and dismay,

expressed at least one every day and night)

to study Poetry in youthful hope

of---some far day---becoming one, myself.

(that happened for me on that Saturday,

July sixteenth of nineteen ninety-four).

Both of you taught me of that useful verse

called Blank, or Iambic Pentameter.

Both of you vivified that line to serve

the grandeur of a cosmic, epic poem;

or meditative discourse on the power

of Poetry; or even a riposte

to skeptics, mockers, haters and yokels.

(And one evening, in early December

of nineteen seventy-six, not Monday

or Friday, or a weekend day; but one,

midweek---the date and exact day of which

I cannot now remember---I spoke of

you, Mister Milton, on my citizens'

band radio to Lady JellyBean,

who need to write a report for her

high school class.  For about three hours or so,

while the most beautiful J-Lore,

drove my car---which would have so shocked both my

parents they might have needed counseling---

so that I could more fully concentrate

on helping JellyBean.  The paper earned

an A for her, and I had much enjoyed

the chance to speak about your Poetry.)

Lately, in this last segment of my old

age (or so I believe it to be so),

I am returning to Blank Verse and to

the rhythm of the agile Iambic

Pentameter:  I want to write a poem

in those lines about two Fridays during

my first collegiate freshman term (lasting

Thursday, September ninth until Tuesday

November twenty-third of that same year---

nineteen seventy-six), and how the gift

J-Lore had given me (second

only to that thriving, exquisite love

that I received in that memorable

year from J-Lore).  Despite the fierce

waves of the upperclassmen's prejudice

against freshmen; and the hatred of some

for those who loved, and who expressed that love

to, whomever they pleased and in a way

according to their natures, without least

regard to inhibitions or to rules;

despite my roommate's quick, immediate

dislike of me (he told me on the third

day of our residence that we would not

take any further meals together, or

seek friendships in the same social circles);

and yes, despite the very worst detail---

the separation from J-Lore

(enforced by distance, two hours' driving time

northeast on the interstate from our small

town to a similar small town in which

the "university" was located):

my First Beloved's gift encouraged and

protected me, and kept me from a fall

apart during that hard and long exile.

I need to tell that in a blank verse poem,

and dedicate it to J-Lore.

Starward

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