A Meeting of Genius - Poetry

A Meeting of Genius

High in a building, up on the fourth floor

Frost strides in through a wide open door.

“Good evening, my friends!” he calls quite aloud.

“I apologize for my lateness – I met such a crowd

While stopping by the woods this snowy evening.

That road not taken is truly deceiving!

I used it as a shortcut to get here nice and quick

But my horse was delayed for the snow was so thick.”

“Well, that’s quite all right,” Mr. Poe replies.

“Simmer down! Simmer down!” Wordsworth cries.

“Can’t we just enjoy our solitary bliss

For just another moment for something is amiss?”

“What are you speaking of?” asks Emily as the phone rings.

“Aha! I know why the caged bird sings,”

Pipes up Maya Angelou.

“Yes, and in all of my sympathy, I do too,”

Says Paul Laurence Dunbar, quick as a whip

“Hush now! Be nice! I’ll have none of your lip!”

They all quiet down and hear neighs from the stable

Then the great poets gather at Alfred’s round table.

Why, there’s Frost and Dunbar and Ms. Angelou.

There’s Carroll and Hughes and Whitman’s there too.

Longfellow sits next to Poe on his right,

Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Byron the head of the plight.

Dunbar and Dickinson sit at opposite ends

And when they’re all seated, Alfred begins:

“I was expecting a guest, a woman from Shalott.

Though she was joining us, I’m afraid now she’s not.”

“Was it the Jabberwock that got her?” Carroll inquires.

“Did she fall out her window and onto the spires?”

“No, no, not that,” Alfred says with a sigh.

“T’was the water that took her on up to the sky.”

“I know how you feel,” murmurs Poe with a grumble.

“My Annabel Lee, too, took a tumble

Out of our boat and right into the sea.

But she’s still there at night when she lies next to me.”

“Oh, have hope, dear Alfred,” Emily sings

“For hope is that bird in your soul with the wings.”

“Is it a raven?” asks Poe evermore.

“An Albatross?” Coleridge asks, still unsure.

“Wait! Do you hear that?” Whitman shouts.

“How could you not? It’s so loud!”

Hughes answers. “It sounds like singing to me.”

“Yes, from everywhere it seems to be.

From the wood-cutter to the woman, it’s here

The sounds that bring from me a tear.”

“If only my Lenore could hear this,” Poe mutters

Soft as wind breezing over shutters.

“Is that a midnight rider coming?” inquires Longfellow.

“Well, it’s not a Spanish ballad, as you well know,”

Retorts Frost, lifting his glass up high.

“To a happy and successful night!”

He toasts, drinking deeply from his draught

“And many more here aft!”

Adds Lewis, dreaming of his life.

“To fun, success, and little strife!”

Shout the rest, singing their motto loud and clear;

“And to pursue our love without a trace of fear!”

And so they laugh and talk and eat and sing and write

As their meeting of genius continues throughout the night.

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