Byron Has Returned by Joel Van Valin But Poets do not write for Poets alone, but for men. - Wordsworth The narrow footpath is salted Though ice has not yet taken the shingles to teeth; O courtesans of the Atlantic, high exalted! And the New Yorker — I've come to drink to your health. Out of the sullen anatomies Of backyard divorces, palatial despair — Out of obscurely worded dissymmetries And a half felt bareness of pain, you've gathered here Where the floorboard's creaky with Residual silence, and the woodburner Lends minimal heat; a matted blackberry wreath Nailed above it ... you huddle in the corner But I'm not the one you fear Being a plain man, with no lordly bearing; And these words are only a simple harbinger A knock on deadwood, to tell you what I've been hearing: From the sea you left so far From these fields or Freudian decay These victimized fields, comes a ship with a rocky sailor Whom the masses love — and the masses shall have their way (As Willie said). And He is bringing The kiss of beauty, and Bonivard's fiery chain — O run for your lives! for He'll set the branches singing And it will be Byron, Byron, Byron, Byron again! © 2001 by Joel Van Valin. All rights reserved. Home