All Poets

I saw a young man reading Homer’s The Odyssey this morning. It’s funny where poems are born.

All Poets Must

It’s required.
At least one poem’s
ink must tattoo
an image of Odysseus

onto a blank page
as white as sea-foam,
as still as the horizon.
I’d like to focus

on the ropes
Odysseus pulls,
hoisting sails into place
where they catch the wind

as a man’s cupped
hands capture
a rill of water.
Or perhaps I’ll describe

the seaman’s sun-bleached-hair,
as thick as wool, crusted,
salty, gelled with the goop
where floated a cyclops’ eye,

but I keep imagining
a little man, thin and drawn,
crouched in the sail’s shadow,
picking worms

from a wet chunk of bread,
flicking them into the sea,
comforted knowing
they are now as lost as he.

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