In This Poetic Intent Herein I'Ve Partly Failed

Upon this fairly scribal yet oversize, Very squarish or rectangular tablet, Do I scribble and scrawl these very words, And those of the completeness of at least a brace, A twain, a pair of poems, though These are, after a fashion, hardly meet. Albeit, they are not so ill-fitting for all of that. They are good poems, those I've today And herein written; Yet to themselves, they ascribe all Manner of different motives, Emotions and motifs. Yet I purpose not hereby and herewith to delineate All the consequent, attendant minutiae compassing those Works; no, my purpose herein is to Fashion a poem much less circumspect, Summary, and oddly essayistic Than quondam ones, yet in so doing I've partly failed-no matter. Yet this poem and those indited formerly, They weren't inscribed beneath some large, Tyrannous, blindingly refulgent Saharan sun; Nor were they beneath the caliginous caul of the night Scrawled hereon, nay; It was my oddest delight to compose these at a time of day Quite interstitial to those abovementioned. Yet some inky darkness even now depends And lends its crepuscular, darksome weight to the entire tableau: That of a poet-writer over his tablet, Head bent low. Yet, a dichotomy, I find, crops up Herein, as a more modern meaning of tablet coexists With that upon which I actually, diligently write This: Which is merely a glorified book of notes.