Doubt (albeit where one may pronounce the b—)
Where Dürer refines from graven lines
the ponderous soul of his subjects,
While sadness traces Franz’s face,
still Schubert regales us in tongues and catgut—
Bill Butler knows a rose is a rose
yet Yeats still seeks a developing image and I,
the nimble and whimsical tongue just noisily moisten pointless postage.
4 thoughts on "Doubt (albeit where one may pronounce the b—)"
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“Nimble and whimsical tongue” is such a fun image!
Thank you! I feel like it’s a little tongue-in-cheek-cum-self-effacing, but it is really silly and fun, too. I like that duality. Thank you for that appreciation!
Awwww, wow! This one feels so directly personal to me.
Such a beautiful swathe of a creative timescape.
Of course, your lines are typically as numerous and detailed as our friend, Durer!
Love these comparisons!
Thank you! I feel like I’ve placed myself as here as a shit-canned postal worker climbing about the toes and shadows of men made gods by their beautiful images, songs, etc. For you to compare me to Durer makes me blush.