"Hunter Getting Dressed after Bathing" by Gabriel Metsu‘Threadbare—a Haiku’ and Other Poetry by Joe Tessitore The Society March 6, 2020 Beauty, Culture, Haiku and Senryu, Poetry 7 Comments My Coat—a Haiku God pays no heed to disguises He can see through— I’ve worn myself out. The Old Poet’s Tree I’m bent with age and the cold, empty page has a lesson it can teach: the fruit I see on the Old Poet’s Tree is now well beyond my reach. Yet still I strive though I’m barely alive and my pen is nearly dry. All night and day to the Master I pray for a way to say good-bye. Then one last verse as I wave from the hearse and if it should make you laugh, please bury me ‘neath the Old Poet’s Tree where I’ll need no epitaph. Joe Tessitore is a retired New York City resident and poet. NOTE: The Society considers this page, where your poetry resides, to be your residence as well, where you may invite family, friends, and others to visit. Feel free to treat this page as your home and remove anyone here who disrespects you. Simply send an email to email@example.com. Put “Remove Comment” in the subject line and list which comments you would like removed. The Society does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or comments and reserves the right to remove any comments to maintain the decorum of this website and the integrity of the Society. Please see our Comments Policy here. Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window)Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) 7 Responses Mike Bryant March 6, 2020 I agree that poets need no epitaph. You’ve written yours in verse and it’s just right. Reply Joseph S. Salemi March 7, 2020 Joe, your poems here suggest a tone similar to Dunbar’s “Lament for the Makars,” with its refrain of “Timor mortis conturbat me!” (the fear of death troubles me). Pay no mind to death. Just keep writing. Reply Joe Tessitore March 7, 2020 Thank you, Joe. Did you see my suggestion, in a different thread, that you consider an on-line course? I, for one, would be seriously interested (your comment of “a finely-chiseled poem” has never left me) and I’m sure others would be as well. Reply Joe Tessitore March 8, 2020 Beyond that, Joe, I often have delayed reactions with things and this is one of those times. I realized that you sensed that I’m on the verge of stopping and cared enough to say something about it. Thank you very much. Reply Joseph S. Salemi March 8, 2020 Joe T. — I’m not especially skilled with computers, so running an on-line course would be tough for me. At some of the schools where I have worked over the years, the budgetary administrations have attempted to force faculty to do ALL their courses on-line (persons from the world of business and finance tend to be stupid about educational policy), but there has been solid resistance from both faculty and students. Nothing can replace the face-to-face lecture and discussion mode. As for the comment in your last post, remember this, which was told to me many years ago by an elderly scholar: “Wake up every morning with the firm conviction that you will live another hundred years. And work through the day as if you were going to be executed in the next twelve hours.” Reply Rob Crisell March 11, 2020 Very touching poem, Joe. It might be one I’ll dig out in a few years and reread. “Fragment I have shored against my ruins,” as Eliot says. Well done. Reply Rob Crisell March 11, 2020 Sorry–“Fragments.” One of my favorite passages from the Wasteland: “These fragments I have shored against my ruins.” Poetry as solace in the 6th and 7th ages of our lives… Reply Leave a Reply to Joe Tessitore Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.