Dear E. Hemmingway

An open letter to a long-dead master writer, whose books I have read all of, at least once, but with whom it is impossible to converse.

Dear E. Hemmingway:
What exactly did you do
To this language of mine?
Shakespeare, they say,
Invented the kitchen�"
The greatest of any wordsmith,
He put together his craft
Like a goldsmith who’s sized a ring.
The same voices�"they say
You forever changed our style.
But my style is unchanged,
Unchecked by the sovereignty of your words.
“Your” words, put together
The way the Kansas City Star
Style Sheet�"their guidelines, not yours�"
Said to do, and you followed.
The man’s man. Writer of the century!
You followed their directions
Into the very Wars in which
You lost your soul�"
Your “Lost Generation.”
No, although I enjoy your books,
And was a fleeting guest in your house,
And though I live and love
And lead my bright little life
In an Age as Dark as any,
I’ll not attribute my voice to you,
Nor continue with your movement,
Nor with anyone’s movement,
For I do not breathe
With your consent,
You cannot label my breaths
Post-modern in style,
So why should anything else I do
Be done as a response
To the things you’ve done?
I read your books,
I wandered your halls,
I once went so far
As to drink the same cognac
As your characters,
But I did not write this poem
For you.

Reviews

[harmattan]

Not sure whether you praise or bury the old goat.
But he IS an influence, like or not.
Hope you appreciate that I am an admirer of the Big H, but not a fan!
Okay, let's really upset someone.
H went so far with his Butch/Macho as to arouse suspicion, as in "methinks he protesteth too much......!
H