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Poem

Oh Tennessee, bard divine, what gems you've given,
Of truth and pain from your wrecked life riven.

Though critics scorned, your genius shone  
In shabby rooms where oft alone,

You typed amid plumes of smoke, your soul's sad cry -
A Streetcar Named Desire, my oh my! 

Your plays laid bare the human heart,
Its longing, fear, and rage did chart.

Upon the stage a confessional 
For souls as torn as yours, so full
Of doubt and dream deferred. You mined rich ore
From depths of pain to gift us more - 

The Glass Menagerie, Night of the Iguana, 
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof - your canon.

New Orleans, Key West, and New York too, 
Knew the demons that plagued you.

You wrestled words in the lonely night,
Until they shone with meaning's light.

America was your restless home, 
Yet no theater bears your name.

Oh, who could write like Tennessee? 
His plays revealed his agony.

So let us praise his lasting art,  
That bared the torment of his heart.

He made human truth his muse, his fate.
For Williams was a playwright for the ages,
Who filled our lives with his brilliant stages.

Perhaps someday, we will name a stage on the great white way to honor him and his plays, where future generations can go to appreciate and praise the likes of Stanley, Maggie, Brick, and Blanche, and yes Big Daddy.

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