How kind of your attention span

To linger on these Writesofman;

Wherein, by dint of prose and verse,

One man for better (say not worse)

Seeks even now, with moving hand,

To touch upon the ways of man,

As even now this hand alights,

Assuming these to be its writes.

What writes are these? you ask, what man?

Who sets them forth, as if by plan?

Why here? and now? and, lastly, whence

Comes one man forth with such pretense?

Fair questions these you fairly pose,

And not in plain prosaic prose,

But all in meetest, measured verse

(How sweet! of you to keep things terse).

So shall I strive that you, in turn,

Shall measure, for like measure, earn;

Shall strive, within this same sweet thrall,

In measure full, to answer all;

And all with but a moving hand

I pray shall be most writely manned,

And meet each question, fairly put,

Most handsome—with a metric foot,

Or two or three—or maybe four

And trust, if moving all the more,

And writing neath a manly wrist,

You’ll count it no write chauvinist. 

First, when we speak of ‘man,’ in kind,

We speak of ‘man’  and ‘kind’ combined,

For man, so kindly in his grace,

Does, all of ‘woman,’ kind embrace.

That, woman, he does so exalt

Shows man is kindly—to a fault,

For who but man, in manly stride,

Would take such ‘wo’ unto his side.

Woe! man does woman, kind embrace;

In turn, she runs him merry chase,

And swiftly rights the wrongs of man

(Who wrongly thought their race he ran).

So round their racy course they go,

And in the end she lets him know

Just where he runs among their race

(Did she not put him in his place?)

But womankind, with all respect,

Might not your kind—not one—object

If this write hand should take delights

To take man’s many wrongs—for writes?

Yet should it write of woman’s wrongs

Might not it be assailed—in throngs!

For that this moving hand so moved

To write of wrongs—not one!—yet proved?

In time the moving hand sees all,

Its writes upon Life’s page befall

—Yet not of man and woman bare,

But all to which each ‘kind’ is heir.

Though no one Muse, the hand, alone

Does move, to Mirth it oft is prone,

Which muse inspires such writes of man

As if Life’s all a musing plan.

And yet, if Mirth does much prevail,

Inspiring many a write-wry tale,

I trust, but bearer of her song,

This moving hand you shall not wrong.

And if she seems a misanthrope

More than a miss, I hold this hope:

Though many a truth be writ in jest

Your sweet tooth shall this wit ingest,

Since other Muses too hold sway,

And move the moving hand their way

Betimes: there’s Beauty; times, Romance;

Betimes profound Reflectionance.

So all-inspired the Writesofman

Speak out (oh, say as well) as can

The Muses all from which they’ve sprung,

In many a moving scriptive tongue.

Aye, tongues that know no long surcease

—And all naught if not of a piece;

For man does, woman, kind embrace,

She, in it, puts man in his place,

And all are one, that one presumes

To speak for Man who, all, subsumes:

The writes of one (he sees the plan)

Are but the writes of Everyman.

What writes are these? But ours in kind.

What man? But every one entwined.

Who sets them forth, as if by plan?

The Everyman in every man.

Why here? and now? Apply this salve:

Right here and now is all we have.

Whence comes forth man with such pretense?

What answer would give recompense?

So moves this hand to touch today

(Soon never to be back this way):

It touches down, it leaves its mark,

Then moves toward the endless dark.

And yet, if Time, one write, calls his

—Then what is writ, immortal, is!

This stilled hand, having left its oeuvre,

Shall yet retain the power to move.