The Crucible


The Captain

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