And the last poem, I've thought of the poet
as the ancient poet.
Going back to the time of the druids,
and way back into prehistory-- as poetry, as being,
at that juncture, anyway, the expression
of primitive man as poetry, perhaps
always is a kind of a desperate utterance of one man.
And so I've called him call this fictitious ancient poet, who
was really just a kind of symbol for the whole type
of all poets, called him "the me myself."
Which the poet, considering with his own consciousness,
and then extending outwards to the world,
sorta becomes the me myself with capital letters--
The Ancient Poet.
And this poem is to explain this mythic poet.
"No swan of a leader in contest, no phoenix risen
from his own ashes, the me myself willed his own birth.
Although he could have kicked all the saints in the pants,
he stayed, paying out truth like ad space.
He played life like a flute player, mostly by ear.
Not like a monk in the dark cell, but like a harem chief,
bounding from flesh to flesh.
He wrestled the word for the secret.
Seasonally, he became the werewolf, or blooming mountain
laurel.
He allowed prying maidens to sniff and pluck petals
from his open sores.
It was a music deep in his core that was protected,
hidden like nectar.
Those who banished him, mockers who cupped their ears,
knew he would not trumpet their doings.
He was no public agent of the soul.
The word was not equitable with bull or bear.
In stock with split, nothing for nothing.
The message was, he had to go.
His execution came like the escaped song of a thrush
outside your window.
His miracle among us was that tablet
of words, the ministry of himself."
[APPLAUSE]