Mom,

Here's a poem I wrote for WAV.

The shambles of a soul and art
Here, both combined in fell array,
With broken skills, seek to impart
Sad thoughts with nothing much to say.

How fallen are the gentle lights
Which Blake and Milton once employed,
Now ground to dullness and benight,
Echoing a mental void.

That rhytm, word, and muse as well
To such dull bathos could decay,
Decries the tale no man could tell
Of mortal dullnes, gang agley

Seeking in dusty corners far
Some glimmer, wit or token phrase,
To comfort souls in sullen bars
Against the pain of witless days.

Go then to paisley shorts and socks
of Argyle, shirts of tropic theme,
Turn to crochet, or painting rocks,
But leave alone the poet's dreams.

Take up accounting, spotting trains
Or inventory of city birds.
Haunt not this realm, with sodden brain
Turning the bright to the absurd.

Take not these shards from poets torn
And use their remnants tripe to spout;
We have enough, enough to mourn.
Go long, and far, and walk about.

Pineas Forgesong Gewirth, Abbot of Palmsfree
Getting-on-Inyeers, Lancs.
Drew Enfolie, Pubs., Edinboro, 1908