You could make a
River from a writhing,
Overturned woman, her husband
Every once in a while I write something I call a cinquain tribute, a cinquain in which the last name of a poet is snuck in via acrostic – the first letter of each line. I enjoy these because the nature of a cinquain – in its brevity and tanka-like feeling – lends itself well to paying personal tribute to the greats.
Here, we have Lord Byron and Keats. They didn’t necessarily like each other.
Byron was a wealthy man of the world with a killer wit. His famous epic “Don Juan” has the main character insisting that his name is pronounced “Ju-an” like “ruin”.
Keats, on the other hand, was a poor kid who studied to be a doctor while at the same time becoming one of the greatest poets in the English language. He also knew how to box.
Lord Byron looked down on young Keats, as did most of the world, the latter’s genius not being fully acknowledged until his passing. Bryon, however, was a literary celebrity in his own time.
Also: there may have been a time where I referred to myself as The Young Keats of the Streets. I turn thirty this weekend, so no more of that.
Even then that
A man was only a
Tome of possibility he