HERMES
he was writing
but, as per usual,
nothing penned
was worth anything
unbeknownst to him
the whole of Olympus
pitched up
to pay
a visit, watch
him write,
pass critical,
sarcastic comments
tell the kind of jokes
that godslike to devise
at mortals’ expense
this I know
because I was there
perhaps you have
heard of me: I am
Hermes, son
of Zeus and
the nymph Maia,
and thus
half-brother
to practically everybody
here
(yes
as messenger god
why should I not be
divine avatar of space-
time
manipulation and dilation?)
Felt for
his Muse though, as
being gods
we know
what he is going to
say before
he writes to say
what he wants to say
but always gets it wrong
someday we will
find a writer whose
genius
rewrites the book (if you
will forgive
that metaphor); leaves
us breathless
(not that gods
breathe)
all I can say when that rarest of occurrence
takes place
we hope that
his or
her
reverence got us, and
healthy lack
of hubris
does not leave us
with yet again
with that age-old tragic
correction punishment problem
but that
may or may not happen
in your lifetime reader, who can tell,
and so, let us conclude
by examining the last line in this poem
our writer’s poem
(as you
can see
he eventually got there)
a line certain not to be able to redeem the rest
of the text
conferring the immortality which
we’re all in the business for, would you not agree?