The Keepers of intellectual trends hold apparent power
And to make it, some are slaves to the Keepers’ fashion
I am a free man to my own muse
I am a priest who intones the litany:
Blake was a free genius, self-published,
And died in literary obscurity
Until T. S. Eliot gave him a name
Shelley knew, “Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure”
Whom all English students now study
Though F. Scott knew fame and wealth,
Gatsby didn’t even sell out its first printing
And F. Scott never knew the book as all high school students do
They suppressed Hemingway’s Pulitzer
They fiercely debated whether Frost were a poet, Wyeth a painter
The Impressionists showed in the Exhibition of Rejects
And Moreau, in the National Paris Salon
Pollock had his 10 years, before his suicide
Mozart died unknown, unsung
We can’t give our contentment to the Keepers
It rests in the beauty of our art manifesting,
In the pen of the writer alone with paper or laptop screen,
And a happy finished project
In the living-room, study, or dorm room
With, or without, the blessing of the Keepers