by Keith Meredith
Whitman shall educate me,
for I am a blank piece of paper
wishing to be covered in his ink—
of knowledge and wisdom from his story-telling
about the poet that I wish to be.
I want to be that poet that he writes about,
dying to go down in his-tory as his greatest work of art.
I am that poem, his poem, spilling from the carbon and
iron gall of his pen. Coloring my body, his page, his
canvas. He’s an artist, a magician, so elegant bringing words
to life, so enchanting.
“As he Ponder d’s in Silence,” swimming in
thought, his thought. As he writes with a
delicate stroke of his hand across the page,
like da Vinci as he paints Jesus and his followers.
He composes what was meant to make him famous;
I was built and rebuilt, until I satisfy what
was meant to be… a masterpiece--
a poem, and I am built with metaphor. Dressed
with style, dancing like burlesque, free-styling leading
to our mind-articulating emotions, his emotions
for your understanding, my understanding
to clear-up who I am, who I am meant to be,
his diary, an autobiography
saying the things that will make you think differently of him,
don’t forgive him, but maybe judge me
because, I am a poet,
his poem… his