Poets (and others) with ink for blood
Inhabit rare cities like Simile
Bricked in word —
Trochee, spondee, anapest
Paved and roofed —
In marble Metaphor.
Stone bridges in such metropoli,
Flow cursive-lovely and arch, full of grace,
Cross rivers of verse and
Low below, lo! their splashy muses go.
The poets (and others) with ink for blood,
Stop still in lanes.
A wide and sonnet sky
Where rhymes of stars cluster and glitter,
Shoot, then burst, then dive.
Bardfolk in summer lie deep
In quatrain stands of grass,
Hearing and telling like crickets
Their tomes and lines.
And high on high, the couplet kites
Dance and air, dance and air.
Poets and others with ink for blood
Live low in the cracks of the cities of men,
Eat nothing but cabbage and smoke,
Die septic and shorn of all hope.
You see them — rock-pocketed now —
Walking then wading, then sinking
Straight into the River of Styx.
Poets (and others) never have been
Fashioned like you and all men
The ink in their veins flows north-northwest.
While yours is a southerly wind.
These (and others) with ink for blood
Forsaken, forsaken through time
Toil in banks – totting things up
Despairing from nine to five.
Oh cry for the poets, you who have souls
They tumble from smack and from gin
Forgive them that quill-jabbery
They learnt cadence from katydids
No! Hang them high and beat them all down.
They won’t heed the clocks of the town.
Go along you poets and never mind
Nevermore, never more, never mind
Ride Okeanos away
Away from the cities of men.
Rest you easy in Elysees,
and lay you
Down safe in the laps of the gods.