for Robert Penn Warren

Our hero escapes to the dance club downstairs
Where iambic dactylics gather in pairs.

Songs are stupid and sad,
Stories are perceptive and gay,
The maid who died in one
Works in the other for pay.

Imperfect, holy music
Lets the hero escape
Into a lyric prison
Of romantic wishes and scrape.
Fending off death
As best he can,
The old, obnoxious ritual
Climbs into the van,
Then driving for miles
As only lyric will,
Hasting towards the old styles
And then, fare ye well.



  1. July 31, 2012 at 7:33 pm

    Rhyming acrostic on Alexander Scriabin’s name, by Vassili Safonov (translation by Faubion Bowers)

    Strong a creator’s sight
    Carries all to heaven’s heights
    Radiant sound of sweetest light
    I a fountain of delight
    All life’s plan
    By man is won
    In the end, I am,
    No doubt a holy man.

    • thomasbrady said,

      August 1, 2012 at 1:33 pm

      Is ‘Blavatsky’ hidden in that poem?

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