Frank Yerby (1916- )

THE FISHES AND THE POET'S HANDS

1. 
   

   They say that when they burned young Shelley's corpse
   (For he was drowned, you know, and washed ashore
   With hands and face quite gone -- the fishes had,
   It seems, but small respect for the Genius which
   Came clothed in common flesh) the noise his brains
   Made as they boiled and seethed within his skull
   Could well be heard five yards away. At least
   No one could hear mine as they boil; but then
   He could not feel his burn; and so I think
   He had the best of it at that. Don't you?

2. 
   

   Now all the hungry broken men stand here
   Beside my bed like ghosts and cry: "Why don't
   You shout our wrongs aloud? Why are you not
   Our voice, our sword? For you are of our blood;
   You've seen us beaten, lynched, degraded, starved;
   Men must be taught that other men are not
   Mere pawns in some gigantic game in which
   The winner takes the hold, the land, the work,
   The breath, the heart, and soul of him who loses!"

   I watch them standing there until my brain
   Begins to burn within my head again --
   (As Shelley's burned -- poor, young dead Shelley whom
   The fishes ate) then I get up and write
   A very pretty sonnet, nicely rhymed
   About my latest love affair, how sad
   I am because some dear has thrown me for
   A total loss. (But Shelley had me there.
   All his affairs turned out quite well indeed;
   Harriet in the river drowned for love
   Of him; and Mary leaving Godwin's house
   To follow where he led -- quite well -- indeed!)

3. 
   

   You see, this is ironical and light
   Because I am so sick, so hurt inside;
   I'm tired of pretty rhyming words when all
   The land where I was born is soaked in tears
   And blood, and black and utter hopelessness.
   Now I would make a new, strong, bitter song,
   And hurl it in the teeth of those I hate --
   I would stand tall and proud against their blows,
   Knowing I could not win, I would go down
   Grandly as an oak goes down, and leave
   An echo of the crash, at least, behind.
   (So Shelley lived -- and so at last, he died.
   The fishes ate his glorious hands; and all
   That mighty bulk of brain boiled when they burned him!)