AN UNFASHIONABLE POEM

IRA MAINE

 Here by this hand as you will see
I’ll upend Gerontology,
I’ll muster words upon the page
To coax from language love,or rage,
Or set great heaven in a fit,
But soft, have I the wit for this?

I might of course, set something down
To blast my foes, make trumpets sound,
Or praise a breast or raise a crest,
Get sometime secrets off my chest,
Yet gladly these I would eschew
If one dear thing I could but do…

 I’d love, upon this printed sheet
To scatter grace notes at your feet,
To order words in perfect round,
So syllables would music sound,
Then all your heart (how hope recurs…)
Would soften to my singing words.

 Yet read…and all falls headlong down,
I lack the wit for Siren sound,
And all the music in my head
By this same wit is left unsaid.
What’s left is, as these notes record,
An old hand, stumbling after words.