The Life Of A Man Of Letters Poem by Sara Militello
The Life Of A Man Of Letters
The Life of A Man of Letters
He occupied an important post grad chair
and from this lofty sphere is where
he spewed wisdom from his superior brain
which held more than any library could contain.
Recalling what he knew caused him little stress
for t'was like he stored it all on a dot-press
and many of his friends typed and collated, helped
put his thoughts into a form he'd earlier developed.
Most of his wisdom rebounded to his credit
his friends only typed; did not edit.
So with many a pen in hand, and some ink
the knowledge stacked up for him to think
Of even more things he wanted on his list,
Book III was so thick it almost broke his wrist!
The books grew so large he had to find ways
to make many facts in the trilogy stay
Tho some of the facts he wanted to tell
had to be shortened to a conjunctive gel
and that process did a bit wrinkle his brow,
tho he remained as tranquil as the calmest cow
Chewing its cud in a field, sating its appetite.
This thought caused him a desire to write
a note telling his wife that such a conjured cow-sight
on even his darkest day could his irritations smite.
Compiling all he'd created fit comfortably
on each separate sheet so neat,
the book into its own came.
Now he had only to give it a name.
Finished, typed and bound within a mere few weeks
and published before its wonders could leak
from loose lips timed for his opus to be complete
out of the mental soil he'd learned to trust,
Now he thrust onto the outer world
of jumbled thought his collected lifelong wisdom
and considered it as sustaining bread
to feed the inside of many an empty head.
April 10,2015
A Man of Letters
When Liberverm resigned the chair
Of This or That in college, where
For two decades he'd gorged his brain
With more than it could well contain,
In order to relieve the stress
He took to writing for the press.
Then Pondronummus said, 'I'll help
This mine of talent to devel'p; '
And straightway bought with coin and credit
The _Thundergust_ for him to edit.
The great man seized the pen and ink
And wrote so hard he couldn't think;
Ideas grew beneath his fist
And flew like falcons from his wrist.
His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways
Till all the rivers were ablaze,
And where the coruscations fell
Men uttered words I dare not spell.
Eftsoons with corrugated brow,
Wet towels bound about his pow,
Locked legs and failing appetite,
He thought so hard he couldn't write.
His soaring fancies, chickenwise,
Came home to roost and wouldn't rise.
With dimmer light and milder heat
His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet,
Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came-
He couldn't even write his name.
The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks
Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks.
Said Pondronummus, 'How unjust!
The storm I raised has laid my dust! '
When, Moneybagger, you have aught
Invested in a vein of thought,
Be sure you've purchased not, instead,
That salted claim, a bookworm's head.
By Ambrose Bierce
Well, this poem put me into a likewise playful mood so I wrote my own version of a poem relating to literary construction...
Actually as it turns out, I wrote several versions, each one had a life of its own and turned out quite differently...I have found that such processes opens up the creative part of my brain and I have conjured up phrases I cannot even imagine I had lying within my brain to end up in a poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/18/2024 4:28:51 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Superb poem.....I mean the poem which inspired you to write such a wonderful poem......10++++