I
Tonight begins my epic poem adventure
Unsure am I of my own subject matter,
Yet persevere, I will and shall endeavor,
To render here a tale in rhyming patter.
So without salute or formal overture,
I offer you my work on silver platter
(An article I've dropped, and no mistake,
But you'll forgive me for the meter's sake.).
II
Quite a good start, I think, don't you agree?
If not, in your opinion, never fear,
For this my maiden poem, you'll soon see,
Will flower like a rose once I've your ear.
Your full attention's what means most to me,
For that's the thing which makes or breaks career.
'Tis my career of which I speak, you know.
Your own is quite a mystery. --Enow.
III
"And what shall be the scope of this?" you ask.
"I'm not quite sure myself, indeed," I say,
"But surely if I put my mind to task
I'll invent something soon (I hope I may!)."
Meantime's, I'll take a sip from out my flask.
Medicinal it is, at least by day.
At night, it has a different purpose to it.
But when I work, I swear that I eschew it.
IV
I'll follow in the great footsteps of Byron.
Of course, my feet aren't lame as once his were--
Or are--for I suppose his are still lyin'
In the casket and in tomb inter
("Interred," I know, is proper, but inspirin'
Good rhymes has precedence--verb tense defer.).
I'm sorry if I seem too addle-pated.
It comes from reading poems antiquated.
V
I know! I'll chose myself for the hero
For no one's mind is more familiar to me,
And if it's strange to you, don't cause a row.
The female oft the subject used to be
Of poems by men, but here I hope to show
That epics are a possibility.
Never before have women played the lead.
Oh God! I pray that here I may succeed!
VI
No precedent is set for such a plan,
But still I have the confidence of Dante
That epic hero need not be a man
Like Alfred Prufrock--T.S. Elliot's front, eh?
And thinly hid was Byron as Don Juan.
Why, Dante chose himself, thus may not I?
Of course, he went to hell and back again
To Beatrice who was without a stain.
VII
No Beatrice am I. Of that I'm certain,
Nor comparable to innocent Haidee
Yet neither like the old Greek temptress Helen,
And Grendel's mother's a far cry from me.
Dissimilar to Eve in God's own garden.
Poor Dido's lost her heart, but not so D.
If there are any more whom I've forgot,
I am not like those others. Not a jot.
VIII
What am I like? I'm sure you wish to know
After that litany of names from yore.
Sit down, I pray, and with my words I'll show
A woman unlike those who've gone before.
No masculine-shaped Michelangelo,
No Botticelli's Venus on the shore,
But something in-between, I hope you'll find,
Possessing both a body and a mind.
IX
I'm fond of men who're blessed with calves of steel
(To clarify, I speak of legs not cows.),
And who are loaded down with sex appeal.
Of course, their sculls insides a brain must house.
I wish their feelings men did not conceal.
And I despise a man who must carouse.
Too vain, too pompous, too repressed
Are not my cups of tea, as I've expressed.
X
Adonis, sure, I don't require he be,
But handsome, yes, and quite intelligent,
And less inclined "he" than unto "me".
Is this too much for me to ask a gent?
Perhaps I'll let it go and be carefree.
What need have I for love that's heaven sent?
His scent--ah that's what brings me back again.
My better judgment bows unto this rein.
Labels: writing
