They say one should stick to what one knows well,

But also to the proven, the purified,

Or our ancient, decrepit, revered.

So how am I to respond to this call

When I have no family memoir to sell?

I am not Spanish, nor born in Poland,

Nor am I the Homer Rediscovered.

My culture now smells of hospital hall.

And thus I only bear my mind, heart, and soul

With which to conceive a Homeric fancy:

Transcendent plains of green and blue and red.

I can not fill those lands with people though:

They would all be trite, they would all be me.

I am hard–set to keep your anima fed.