and any personal details in verse,
though thankfully and sensibly unrhymed,
unlike old Dryden's stuff; here goes, then, and
do please forgive verbosity, to which
I know myself too drawn in prose as well.
To understand my poem, you should know
that this past summer I attended camp
for "gifted kids," at which I was assigned
a simile in fine Homeric style;
I wrote about the weekend dance, and how
I feared lest coming rain enforce a change
of venue and attendance policy.
Were it to rain that night, they'd move the fete
off to the nearby gym, and make sure that
all went -- and that I did not want to do.
Now dreading in her heart the time to come,
Half-dying with fatigue, the tiredness
Long, languid days build up, intrepid Kate,
That corner-dweller, hailed her RA
Sweet-tempered Megan, praying to the gods
For verdict better than what she had heard.
And lo, with wingèd words the messenger
Of those above freed sleek-haired Katie’s mind
From care — “The dance, they tell me, will be held
Outside; the rain’s let up enough.” News filled
With joy for you, shy Kate, whose soul took rest
In quiet — joy, as when a child, who
Has sown the seeds of some small plant, stood long
In vigil till the day it sprouts, poured out
Sweet water from the Appalachian hills
Upon the earth about its roots, at last
Bears witness to its glorious first bloom,
With petals like the sun. He plucks it then,
The flower a golden splendor breathing scent,
And carries it through ashlar halls to where
His sashed and lovely mother waits, hands furled
In her expectant lap; she smiles at
His gift, extends white arms around him — his
Reception gives him joy. So was the joy
Of Katie, book-devourer, when she learned
The lord of thunder-clouds had spared her from
The clash and heat of Terpsichore’s rites.
Much thanks for all your patience, my new friends;
it is my hope the verse will make amends.