All the Little Bards

Albert Gannon Farquar-Lock, he sowed his peppered praise; his Shakespeare wandering love of words, and hey!... distant, country, with me the pupil fifteen and a day, he my teacher: keen to learn my pen, his way; and through the nightly, writing of his sprite, I learned to conjure light, by write; his furrowed brow, or tense fleshy smile, could take my pen, through field or styal, we hushed the stars and wrote of mars and other poultry Gods, like Hemingway, Carver, Doyle and Faulkner's saints; then briskly, followed the words, I'd borrowed from Bukowski, Capote and unfaithful Hughes; Plath,Mckweon and O'keefe all helped master the stealthy thief, "time"; to write such simple prose; the skin off every poet's nose; and now with his memory, his college tie, his blue- tweed jacket, and his catholic sigh, my skill (little), and joy of speech, he hushed the stars, for me to reach.