The Poet, of the King

(3 December 2001)

 

Wrapt up in all the glory of those men

I chronicle, though am not starred to be,

I lose myself as often as maintain--

Forget my goal, to Destiny my plea.

Though Immortality in words is writ

As much for author as for conqueror

Yet thinking back on Caesar catching France--

Or Alex, who by now could see the world

All spread before, a banquet to his taste--

These victors' thoughts ensnare my quiet plot

Though I am born to follow and describe,

To soothe the heart, or calm my King in thought.

I'm Poet born, no appetite for war

Or conquest, even less to lead a State.

I want no Pow'r, Worldmaking's in my pen;

I'd give more than a crown for chalk and slate.

Yet I on Glory loft my mind and soul

To train myself to fill th'appointed role.

But thinking on those things I lose myself,

Forget the fame I'll give, want some for me.

And I most selfish am when thinking of

Those men I love, and those I long to be.

Not only Louis, Richard, Charlemagne,

But Bruce and Dan and men in my own town

True Kings, those men of pow'r and person strong

Who, in themselves, may earn a real renown;

Those men who do, though I am called to tell,

Those men respected, loved, and not forgot,

Those men with eyes in Heav'n and feet on Earth,

They shake the world, as real as I am not.

When thinking on these things I lose myself--

I strive to fight a war I couldn't win--

But every time I tame my mind t' obey

My Talent spend, for else would be a sin.

So I on Glory loft my mind and soul,

Forgetting Self to fill th'appointed role.