The Captain By Keith Meredith

February 14, 2013

Whitman shall educate me,

for I am a blank piece of paper

wishing to be covered in his ink—

of knowledge and wisdom from his story telling

about the poet that I wished to be.


I want to be that poet that he writes about,

dying to go down in his-tory as his greatest work of art.


I am that poem, his poem, spilling from the carbon and

iron gall of his pen. Coloring my body, his page, his

canvas. He’s an artist, a magician, so elegant bringing words

to life, so enchanting.


“As he Ponder d’s in Silence”, swimming in

thought, his thought. As he writes with a

delicate stroke of his hand across the page,

like da Vinci as he paints Jesus and his followers.

He composes what was meant to make him famous,

I was built and rebuilt, until I satisfy what

was meant to be… a masterpiece–


a poem, and I am built with metaphor. Dressed

with style, dancing like burlesque, free  styling leading

to our mind articulating emotions, his emotions

for your understanding, my understanding

to clear- up who I am, who I am meant to be,


story, his diary, an autobiography

saying the things that will make you think different of him,


don’t forgive him, but maybe judge me


because, I am a poet,

his poem… his-


Keith Meredith is a sophomore majoring in English and can be contacted at

Have a poem you want to see in print? Email it to

Posted in: A&E

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