Lines Freely Taken from Callimachus

Some enemies of mine (and of the Muse)

Recently having learned to tie their shoes

And toddle upright, scarcely ever falling,

Have now decided on a brand new calling:

They will be critics! And it's me they're after!

"He's not a poet-just an arts-and-crafter:

Two lines a week, tediously diminished

Until his tiny masterpiece is finished.

He's the one who's finished: nothing left to say,

No epic grandeur, no grant from the N.E.A."

But I learned my art from divine Apollo:

"Here are two rules that I would have you follow:

When you are sacrificing, choose a beast

Almost too fat to waddle to the priest,

For fatty meat is always sweet and tender.

But when you're singing, keep your muse slender,

Your lines melodic and your thought compressed:

Leave thundering to Zeus-he does it best."

I've done so all my life. And now today

When bombastic bards belligerently bray

For asses' ears in poems called profound

By those who only weigh them by the pound,

I think of the sacrifices that I've made,

All of the fat trimmed by Apollo's blade

And see no need to change: the god was right.

My lines stay green although my hair's turned white.