The Poet Tess

 

 

A poet fair, by name of Tess,

Prayed on the Muses all to “…bless

—So bear, each lyric patroness,

   My name, my rhyme,

That both—on winged Immortalness—

   Shall outlive Time.”

 

 

In naught but thigh-long auburn hair

Tess legged astride her piebald mare

Whose back and rump, like Tess, were bare,

   And off they trot,

Along the spring-leafed thoroughfare

   To Camelot.

 

The air, like Tess, felt soft in May,

Warm sunlight on her hair made play,

And Poesy, the mare, was gay

   As on they trot,

Au naturelle along the way

   To Camelot.

 

Twilight there and then was falling,

Destiny was calling, calling,

Fame, oh, Fame so all-enthralling,

   Tess made dare,

To ride out naked, young, and sprawling

   ’Stride her mare.

 

But…

 

The road to Immortality

Was sown with immorality,

For hid behind each poet tree

   A lusty Pun.

Soon Tess was very shocked to see

   What John had Donne.

 

Smiling, Tess continued riding

(Another!) how her eyes were widing:

When stepped out John D. from hiding

   With a word.

He gave it to her, bold Sir Dryden:

   Good! was heard.

 

The blushing bardess, waxing mellow,

Was stunned to hear the next tree’s “Hell-o!

—Wadsworth, Henry!” was his bellow

   (And his name).

Tess flushed the more for how Longfellow

   Got his fame.

 

But faith! our Tess was getting sore,

A part of her cried, “Nevermore!

Oh, Edgar, please, I do implore

   Pray hear my plea!”

Quoth he the raving Edgar “More!”

   She, “Poe-etry!”

 

Gingerly was Tess ascending

Poesy with night descending,

But her passion soon was mending

   Pain of day,

And humming sweetly soon was wending

   Moonlit way

 

—The sweeter when he came across her,

Fresh from Canterbury, Chaucer.

Quite a tale he thought to toss her

   (On the grass).

“Are not such tales against the law, sir!

   —Oh!—such brass!”

 

Romantic now our Tess inclined,

And so she sought a kindred mind;

She dreamed, and he with her reclined

   Upon green earth.

She, for he was sweet, refined,

   Got her Wordsworth.

 

On, out popped Rob and Lizzie Browning,

He a-smiling, she a-frowning;

Tess, bold Robert, soon was downing

   With amor;

Yet Liz, for Tess’s tender crowning,

   Got full sore.

 

“Oh, my! oh, me! oh, me! oh, my!

Oh, I must rest or I shall die!

This poetry is so…so…(sigh)

   —So trying me!

That I shall lay—no, lie

   Down by this tree.”

 

“Oh, dear of dears, what humble tears

—The Stratford Bard to me appears;

He holds my eyes as well my ears,

   I’ll downward glance.

Sweet William!—mercy sakes!—your speare’s,

   Your speare’s—a lance!”

 

Done, Tess rode on “Yet my heart yearns

—For love! as low to highland turns.”

“I’ll gi’e ye, lassie, all Love earns

   —In guid Scot’s lilt!”

“Ohh, Robbie, dear! it burns, it Burns

   Beneath your kilt!”

 

Came then our Tess upon that pond

Of which she was, in truth, so fond,

“Oh, Henry, so sweet does your bond

   Concord with me,

“All poetry within me’s spawned

   —Yes, Thoreauly!

 

“Oh, I’m impassioned, I’m on fire,

Love’s minstrels—lift me, higher, higher!

To Mount Olympus I aspire,

   My Muse to see!

What poet-tricks must I acquire?

   —No-o-o!—Chastity?

 

“O Camelot, wherefore you now?

I’ve ridden been neath many a bough;

And I’ve learned who, and when—and how!

   But still not where.

Is Camelot a castle—Ow!—

   I’ve built in air?

 

“But whose face this from times of yore?

I swear it to be Love’s encore:

He’s had his way with me before,

   This poet blade!

And I’ve, too, passed this way for

   I’ve—a circle made!

 

“O poets great, oh, poets all,

I to your words—and deeds!—did fall

Yet comes not Fame to me withal,

   For all you swear:

‘A Poetess—in Poets’ Hall?

   We cannot bear!’

 

“O Camelot, my heart is achen:

Fame’s unborne me, Fame-forsaken,

Poets, my chaste love, have taken,

   For all time.

Immortalness shall not keep waken

   Me in rhyme.”

 

A wiser Tess, spent and forlorn,

Lay down upon the dewey morn;

Then Dante (“Gabriel!”) blew his horn,

   Truth, in her, dwelled:

“A poet, Tess,  is made—not borne!”

   And so she swelled.