From 2012. Exercises in the Latin elegiac metre.
Auden wrote verses that souls in the year three thousand two hundred
will (if Heaven is just) venerate, read, and enjoy.
Coffee at five in the morning jump-starts the indolent brain-cells,
startling this sleep-needing mind into a semblance of wit.
August is not really known for crisp and northerly breezes,
but to the vigilant eye, signs of autumn appear.
Origen lopped off his manhood -- a rashly injurious action! --
nonetheless, all that he wrote seems enticingly sane.
Blessed with a roomful of books, ensconced between shelves over-loaded,
addict of yellowing tomes, how can he crave even more?
Grateful to old Mr D, my teacher of senior-year Latin,
I can recall even now Roman bards' naughtiest lines.
Ashbery's intricate mazes lead nowhere, or everywhere. Truly,
poems like these can be fun, just for a short little while.
Kilimanjaro's summit has not the absurd elevation
as that mountain of clothes waiting so long to be washed.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2018-11-26 at 08:22
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