XXI
Don September 18th, 2008
XXI
Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.” I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”
It is now the Fall of 1971, the beginning of my junior year of college. Realizing that I do not have the talent to be principal clarinetist with the Atlanta Symphony, and loving music too much to subject myself to the dreary fate of being a junior high band director, I change my major from music to English. Giving up one lifelong dream, I realize another and enroll in Koine Greek class to satisfy my new foreign language requirement. But these upheavals are minor events compared to the annual changing of the seasons.
ODE TO A SHIRT
I could never wear this shirt in summer;
Winter, spring, were just as bad:
This is a shirt for wearing in autumn,
Full with autumn colors plaid.
Bright the glory of the leaf-host,
Brown the windblown stalks of corn,
Chill the frost on pumpkin orange
Seen while walking, early morn.
The spirits of these things lie sleeping,
Woven deep among the threads.
Tomorrow will be time for wearing;
Indian summer now has fled.
I could never wear this shirt in summer;
Winter, spring, were just as bad:
This is a shirt for wearing in autumn,
Full with autumn colors plaid.
I miss that shirt.
Donald T. Williams, PhD