'O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen <br />That am not yet a glorious denizen <br />Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer, <br />Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, <br />Smoothed for intoxication by the breath <br />Of flowering bays, that I may die a death...' <br /> <br /> - John Keats, 'Sleep and Poetry <br /> <br /> <br />I suppose it is the late, or soon to be, poet's lot to jot one <br />for daffodils. At least one. This is mine, a last will to verse. <br /> <br />But first, I take a pill before dying, I mean, <br />its meager meal, yellow sun on a jaundiced plate. <br />'Consumption' is the word I want. I've got that, <br />and few breaths left and a flat voice to tell it in. <br /> <br />'The daffodils were yellow as the sun.' <br />So lay down thy pen. Ungrasp! I say. <br />An olden voice pulls at bruised skin. <br />I grow thin. And gasp. I grow thin as winter air. <br />I'll not see them rise again from bulbs perennially. <br />Not me, annulled in this season of the lung <br />though each breath mimics leaven, assumes <br />Eternity's aspirations, but...(where was I?) ... <br />not me, not long for my tongue to sing. <br /> <br />Meanwhile, bright petaled mouths flaunt, gape, <br />gulp in early spring, whereas, I flop here, leaden, <br />landed, banked, a carp brought to heel from bluer <br />lake pulling gills swallowing nothing that can sustain, <br />or not much. I sympathize, yes, then down another <br />pill for more air to clutch, breath an almost perennial <br />memory of last spring when it first edged me in, <br />clipped my singing short, when seasonal flowers so <br />easily rhymed but in a minor wheeze for a minor voice. <br /> <br />Fine then. Some one, some other poet write a <br />line for when I've gone under forfeiting all final drafts. <br />Those yard yellows spoon dirt to a useless <br />feeding sun, useless because I'm soon done in. <br /> <br />I'd do the same for you, Mr. Keats, in a soft, bleating tone of voice.<br /><br />Warren Falcon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/because-they-rhyme-they-live-not-i/
