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Baba Brinkman
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1
A damsel with a dulcimer
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In a vision once I saw:
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It was an Abyssinian maid,
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And on her dulcimer she played,
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Singing of Mount Abora.
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Could I revive within me
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Her symphony and song,
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To such a deep delight 'twould win me
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That with music loud and long
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I would build that dome in air,
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That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
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And all who heard should see them there,
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And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
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His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
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Weave a circle round him thrice,
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And close your eyes with holy dread,
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For he on honey-dew hath fed
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And drunk the milk of Paradise.
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I'm livin' every day with the dead poets' society
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Rioting inside my head, so it requires me
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To keep every word I've read close beside me
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Inspiring me to never go quietly
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I'm posturing like I'm the offspring of Oscar Wilde
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The foster child of Geoffrey Chaucer; now
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Hip-hop's the trial I face here, so I adopt the style
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But I've got to make clear that since my eighth year
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I've been possessed by Shakespeare and William Blake's spirits
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And still I wait to hear a voice like T.S. Elliot's
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And Percy Shelley is the first to tell me just
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How to speak out of turn and keep my verse rebellious
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I read Keats and learn from a grecian urn
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How to reach eternity through the gyre where Yeats purns
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So I can meet Traherne, plus I'm a freak like Burns
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With his twenty-some children, though I'm still a young pilgrim
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And I'm buildin' a temple from the skills my tongue's yieldin'
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So I feel like John Milton; paradise is lost
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For the thrill; I'm John Skelton crossed with Wordsworth
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And my zeal is unwelcome in George Herbert's church
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I'm livin' every day with the dead poets' society
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Rioting inside my head, so it requires me
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To keep every word I've read close beside me
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Inspiring me to never go quietly
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For a challenge I'm known to approach talent shows with
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Poems that I stole from Edgar Allen Poe's lips
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Opium hits dope Alexander Pope's wits
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I was Samuel Coleridge in a trance when I wrote this
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And I awoke with the whole song done
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I felt the soul of John Donne; Andrew Marvel
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Taught me to chase the sun; I can't make it stand still
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So instead I'll make it run, with puns denser
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Than Edmund Spencer's, and modern lyrics
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Modeled on Robert Herrick's; when I dispense words
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It's like a forge is firin', and I'm strikin' the iron
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Inspired by Lord Byron when I'm writin' the Siren
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Song; evidence of desire went wrong
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And lost innocence; my memory's gone
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In a sense, Tennyson has been reborn
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In a form with the fingerprints of Henry Vaughn
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I'm livin' every day with the dead poets' society
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Rioting inside my head, so it requires me
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To keep every word I've read close beside me
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Inspiring me to never go quietly
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As a poet I'm conscious of the goals I accomplish
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That I owe to accomplices, and when I'm feelin' honest
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My conscience bids me to admit to stealin' sonnet
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Styles from Philip Sydney; I'm fulfillin' a promise
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I gave Dylon Thomas to rage against the dyin'
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Of light; I'm like Adonis: I'm still a novice
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But I already got the skills to thrill a Goddess
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Or start a riot in the heart; that's why it's pounding
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I'm Thomas Wyatt's foundling; on Ezra Pound's wings
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I fly, quietly grounding my weight on the past's crutches
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I'm Robert Browning, and this rap is "My Last Dutchess"
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I'm puttin' the last touches on the way it's sounding
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In strange surroundings my grasp clutches
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For balance; I spin words, recalling how fast structures
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Fell and splintered at my feet like Alan Ginsberg
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That's how I'm ensured power of speech, and now I've been heard
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I'm livin' every day with the dead poets' society
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Rioting inside my head, so it requires me
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To keep every word I've read close beside me
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Inspiring me to never go quietly
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds
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Admit impediments...
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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
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Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so...
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In what distant deeps or skies
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Burnt the fire of thine eyes
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On what wings dare he aspire
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What the hand dare seize the fire...
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As holy and enchanted
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As 'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
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By woman wailing for her demon lover...
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Who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling
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Even had you skill in speech, which I have not...
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Well those passions read, which yet survive
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Stamped on these lifeless things...
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To whom thou sayest "Beauty is Truth,
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Truth Beauty, that is all ye know on earth
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And all ye need to know"
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Let us roll all our strength and all
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Our sweetness up into one ball
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And tear our pleasures with rough strife
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Through the iron gates of life
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Thus, though we cannot make our sun
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Stand still, yet we will make him run
Off That (Rationalist Anthem) - Baba Bri...
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