Present to me your whispered half-truths,
your lies, slanderous and sticky,
like honey from a comb,
and I will suckle.
No bosom sweeter,
more rosy blushed,
with commiserated vapidity
than that for which the clamoring throng
aches.
Hold fast, you People.
Cast a furtive eye upon
the chainless bounds
and with a measured thumping
your toil shall be yours to nurture.
Dig not your ragged-nail, sun-cracked
hands into that loam,
laid out for you in thick carpeted runs
by gold plated men.
Cease your throaty chewing of that black-copper tang
that cloaks all nascent aspiration.
Stand up, you Man.
Raise your hoary pate above that far horizon
and tip your hat to the trembling Dawn.
Tread forward, far off from that
pallid bosom of iniquity.
I love this! So many people don’t like the old-style writing anymore; they say it’s passé; they say you have to be modern, and stupid, and boring. I love reading your poems!
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Thank you! I’ve been reading a lot of Whitman lately and he must have infected me with something.
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It’s amazing how easy it is to adapt the writing style of someone else. Whitman–great role model.
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Whitman…a grand invocation! 🙂
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Very skillfully constructed imagery and the imagery shocks and shudders the soul leaving beauty to be a tragic conception. Anand Bose from India
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Thank you so much.
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