Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 12:
There was an doddering Guru
And stopped he one of three.
`By my long grey beard and shimmering tooth,
Why on earth are you stopping me?
My best friend’s doors are opened wide,
Just for his wedding fare
The guests abide the bench inside.
Can you hear cheerful flair?’
Guru held him with his lean grip,
“There was a tree,” quoth he.
`Back off! Unhand me, grey-beard Gyp!’
Dead dropped his hand did he.
Still sat our doddering Guru
Till stopped he two of three
‘By my clean-shav’n face and hullabaloo,
Why in Styx are you stopping me?
My lady love waits yet at home,
For my returning trip,
She waits by crepitating flames,
By hearth with scotch to sip.’
Guru held him with his thin thumb,
“There was a tree,” quoth he.
‘Unhand me, fool, I’ll not succumb!’
Released his grip did he.
Sun set around our Guru
When stopped he last of three
‘By my wooden sword and fresh kung fu,
Why, mister, stop you me?
My playmates stand in line for ball,
If late, I’ll mist the draft.
I’ll need a sterling cause to stay
And listen to your craft.’
Guru mussed his hair with wrinkled palm
“There grew a tree,” quoth he.
The child sat down beside old man
Released his plans did he.
“In the age beyond age forgotten
In the time stars were conceived
There grew a tree begotten
Of life increased, relieved
“Ne’er grew it higher than the breadth of a hand
Nor stretched out farther from
The other side of the other land
To death did not succumb
“Each generation assigned one o’er the life
One keeper of their tree
He healed the sick, he raised the dead
This keeper of their key
“But then in time six mutineers
Arose to seize the tree
They sucked out nearly all its tears
Imprisoning what’s free
“They fought a war impervious
But died of treachery
Our elders all improving us
Cut down the Living Tree.
“Twelve men supplied twelve artistries
Twelve men contrived with care
Twelve men fashioned of staff from tree
Under night’s open air
“Then age by age the staff passed down
To elder, wise man sage
Each one decides to give life’s crown
Unto the coming age
“I give you now the staff of living
Tree and living man
I give you now the staff that many
Others failed to win.”
With that the young boy took the tree
That stopped the ancient war
Then walked he back the way he came
Alive now, evermore.
Comment early, comment often, keep it civil: