Quixotic Venture





Call me quixotic,

I’ve plied these seas before

Man and boy

The Great Ocean of Lines and Lies

The rolling currents of free, blank

Bland and blusty literary page

Of caps and bottoms

Starts and stops

Commas and colons,

Simileweed, some edible, some

Needing to be steamed first.


And here I find my self

Taking to the tide one more time,

Drawing the painter aboard

Waving to sensible others

Who look to the horizon and see

Only squalls, enough to sink

My little boat,

And shrink the heart of the gamest

Shanty sailer, who is not me.


I take to the tide to follow a

Miltonian dream to stranger shores

Where unfamiliar gods are loved

And hated, and move the poet to

Bless the day his mother weaned him

From milk onto words.


Then write down accounts of such

Structure of labyrinthine proportion

That challenge the gentle reader:

Take this! And this! Hah! Have at your

Tall whirling sail, if you unfurl it!


Trueheart fears not the fiery breath

Of criticality;

He warns his dragon that this is but

Line the first,

And there are many more to follow

‘Ere final nightfall.





Copyright ©  Peter Twohig. All rights reserved.