How I long to step my feet
Upon these waters that have lured
Me down a certain half-deserted street,
but my vision is obscured...
How then shall I begin?
In a minute is there time
For my answer deep within
To manifest in rhyme?
To the entrance of the cave she comes and goes
Whether she’ll go in, she does not yet know.
So, be my guide - unmask
my eyes from iced obstruction -
So, I may gauge the task
Of Icelandic poetry construction.
(But first I must digress
From this route to understanding,
For I’ll burst if I repress
the fallacy of TB’s poetic branding:
While,
Yes, the cool all dwell in graves,
And Fishbones has fallen from its hill;
Yes, I too prefer the caves,
And killing dinosaurs for the thrill.
Still,
I simply can’t digest
With every single salty grain,
That rhyming ain’t the best
Despite TB’s strong disdain.
For rhyming is a fine device
That knocks down walls once girdled round;
It lures us deep into those caves of ice,
Making us tenants again on holy ground.
Excluding no ages, rhyming accepts all men;
Protruding the pages marked up in pen
Floats beauty disguised in an appealing casing,
(which is why my tone)
denotes snooty surprise upon such rhyme-debasing.)
With feet hovering like the Fool,
I consider the plunge
Yet I’m afraid that grad school
My free time’s expunged -
I oughtn’t take on new tasks,
When I’ve hardly time to inhale,
Which is why I now ask,
What will my duties entail?
To the water she comes and goes
Coming closer and closer to dipping her toes.
Let’s speak hypothetically:
“I’M DOWN,” in all caps
“to broadcast, poetically,
These scrawled horror-raps.
For still the time it sometimes comes
In which I’m free to write,
And I’d give a tithe of all their sums
To the Sweet World of Arthur White.
So tell me more, I’m nearly baited,
Will it be worth it, after all?
Answer me this: Am I the one fated
To read the writings on the wall?
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