I Am Not E.B. White

I Am Not E.B. White

E.B. White elucidates on the elements of style
A list of do’s and don’ts
And his voice lingers in the halls of cerebellums, young and old,
Of a modern generation.

But I am not E.B. White
Nor am I Ernest Hemingway
I adhere to Orpheus’ voice
Who brought Persephone to tears

Yes, less can be more.
But I am not E.B. White
Nor am I a red wheel barrel
Or a petal amidst a crowd.

My voice came by the way of
Baudelairean flowers amidst
Mud-stained halos,
Yeatsian clothes embroidered in heaven
And Greco-Roman gods who stare at me
From brightened constellations

I have spread my dreams underneath a million eyes
But I am not E.B. White,
I must write and sing as though touched by
Orpheus’s mad hand.
Neither  pounding to make it new
Nor dying in fire and Frost;
I must write and sing how the gods decreed
While treading softly on fragrant voices of the past.