Ode on a rival's poetry
My lady loved his poems first
then him, a little less;
then finally she loved me worst
of those she loved the best.
Her vision was to him more dear
than all the many days
his spine spent bent above his desk,
his hand crabbed words of praise.
But though in love with him her fear
was that his wording power
would flee should she choose him to wed,
would end at such an hour.
My lady to her lover: "never"
and he, to her: "always".
I had a thought I thought was clever,
but had no time to waste.
For perfect words she could not marry
For good ones could not care.
At last my skill would be of use
My skill with words which err.
And so I wrote some songs so hairy
so listless in their time
so poor, so lost, and so confused
so banal every rhyme:
My lady hated them enough
she gave her hand to me
And then he wrote his greatest stuff
(to last eternally).
She knew that if his love denied
aroused such verbal feast
then certainly my love returned
would make my crooning cease.
At last she lies with me and sighs
for beauty and for pain
At last I lie with love unearned
never to sing again.
2007-04-24 at 4.21 pm
Inspired by a passage of Yeats' biography in Louis Ducek's "Poetry of our time":