IV: A Slapped Awakening

When I was young I read
W.B. Yeats. Wow, did that
man have myths! Powerful,
obscure and confident myths
to warm my troubled heart by,
lies to cheat history, to diddle
his personal form of original sin
(and mine) into a triumph. That sly
old strumpet, it now turns out,
was the mentor I never thought
I had, lurking in my head
until my own awakening.
I remember reading his poems
much later in a nineties
anthology and deciding that
he was the only one likely to
break out of the field. The
rest, though eloquent, were
prey to their emotions, like dogs.
I am far along enough to
see his tricks and love them.
Like a dog bouncing on her
leash as her master takes
her out, I am tethered and
running. I will have my myths, my
mazy constructs, but I've
come to think the best metaphor
is a joke.