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An Ode for the Rhapsode


The Muse, Gabriel De Cool

Here blooms a fair poet,
In whom there is no deceit.
I would play him like a cello,
And sway him to singing
Of the rage of Achilles
While there calmly sitting
With unfair, wily Socrates
Ensnared under an olive tree,
Already lost in some debate.

You thought to put him to the test,
This child my mind had blessed.
He waited patient on your con,
And played along without protest.
Your method led to trouble later on,
But you were gentle with my friend, Ion.

Yes, I am the guilty one.
He was my pretty Grecian urn,
Into which I’d pour some wine.
I would let poor Ion burn,
And turn his thoughts to Helen.
Only her pure limbs could compare
To the towers of topless Ilium.

For a poet is a winged being,
And thus belongs to me.
My spirit starts them singing
In rhythm to my breathing.
And my hidden, lyric purpose,
Is not for you to parse or reason.

And when you shake and start,
And reach for pen or lyre,
It is done on my desire.
There is no shame in that,
For I undress your heart,
And set your soul afire.

Be a son as my wise Ion,
Who is a guileless child,
And enjoys my pardon,
Heaven, and my smile.
Now he sings of glory,
Not of kings or rage,
With his friend Socrates,
On my eternal stage.

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Filed under Poetry