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.
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