(Homage, Sir Henry Howard)
“Strife was born… the elder daughter of black Night.”
—Hesiod trans. Lattimore
The Competitive speed and Strength of a thought
Halidom Shaped by the myths You haven’t had
In your hand: First to claim it Last to read it,
A book. First to take. A look.
Here is the Bible Here are Greek Myths Here is a symphony
Written in fifths You quote every day Sung for the deaf
Five denials: Plucked black strings Or who is to say?
Five gifts. A pictured way. Struck white clef.
Sir Henry Howard The Earl of Surrey Wrote a sonnet
Though in a hurry Or so I hear The first to bend
Made of fourths: Was full of beer The most foolish proud boy…
Died but once. Ruled little else. But made a good end.
Theogony Of invented forms Plethora, god-patron
Of the mundane Of little, of rhyme Before Time
Had eaten: Of His own trick Designed a shield:
The blame. Of a labeled quarter. His own death-warrant.
