Had I the wit of Ogden Nash, the shivery of Poe
Could I immortalize the past as Byron or Caro,
The old conventions I would shake, an “Eduardo” seek,
I’d raise the walls of liberty and champion the weak.
Were I as sane as Dickinson, knew of Cummings’ arts
“in-just” a net of “words” I’d seize the moods of human hearts
Then sPrInG would be my prisoner, and I should have the key,
“Much-Madness” would the sanest shout, and point and stare at me.
As Sandburg scatters to the wind the ash of eras past,
And Khayam wonders deep in thought if present souls will last,
“Ozymandias” erodes the more, the words of Dunne surpass,
And Shakespeare lives within his plays, as Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass”
If I, with sense of all these arts, could mistake their skill,
A mocking bird I’d never be and write as others will
For I’ll not reach to borrow from the art of anyone;
But I shall make my words my own, until my life is done.