written by the light of a candle
in an attic in some country home
indeed it was beside a lake
by a writer destined not to be published
until long after her death

and her pen moved with the candle
every movement dictated by the wind
scribbled furiously in olde english
on what could only be called parchment

the family downstairs could not understand
her desire to write, could not understand
the words she would now write about
the life it took to live oppressed the way
only a white woman can

and words written down, yes! one more
perfect allusion to homer, and yet another
to shakespeare. sweat dripping from her brow
now as the pen moves faster and faster

no need to correct mistakes unmade
a perfect hand, one more perfect verse
and as she stands with arms raised high
a smile protrudes from her unwrinkled face
perfect – she screams in her head
the best poem in the world

today i found it, written in sweat and tears
nearly one hundred fifty years after its composition
and as my eyes moved across the page
back and forth like a candle in the wind
i rose, raised my hands and a smile came
to my bearded chin

emily, you’ve done it again.
the best poem in the world
i have to find my gilligan’s album so i can
sing it to that tune….

so sit right down and read a poem
a poem by emily dick
sung to the tune of gilligans
they always make me sick