For Keith Johnson
‘Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.’ Carl Sandburg
I presume, since Carl Sandburg was a poet
of the railroad and the five-and-dime,
of prairie skies and the remarkableness
of the people, they are American
biscuits – that cross between scone and bannock –
to mop up the gravy from your beans
on the Chisholm Trail to Dodge City.
According to Homer, among others,
Hyakinthos, a Spartan prince of great
beauty, much fancied by Apollo,
had his skull split. Zephyrus had thrown
a vindictive discus. From the young man’s
purple blood bloomed the flower, his initial
traceable amongst the ornate petals.
Love and lard, flour and ferocity,
blossoms and buttermilk, salt and stories –
poetry is an amalgam, a mixture
of use and wonderment.
Note: Keith Johnson