Exactly 200 years ago today Lord Byron died of malaria in Missologhi, Greece. In observance of this day I present the first of a series of poems I am writing called Letters to Lord Byron. These “letters” are written in ottava rima, the form Byron used for Don Juan.

Letters to Lord Byron

Letter #1

To the right honorable Lord Byron,
I hope this letter finds you well despite
Having been dead for nearly two hund—
dred years, and I have the gall to write
a fan letter to ask advice on
Matters of the pen and which rhymes delight
And then, of course, matters of the heart,
Or other wisdom you care to impart.

You wanted a hero, a common want
For a poet in search of a subject
Like a dog in search of a debutant,
A hook to hang that which we dissect
To display all our pens could wish to flaunt
Most surely not meaning to disrespect,
What poet would wish to strike a sour chord
Surely not this humble servant, M’Lord!

For I am as innocent as you are,
Though perhaps a little less elegant
My words will reach you no matter how far,
Which truly depends on where you’ve been sent:
Don Juan in Hell? Jesus Christ Superstar?
Which, my dear friend, is your antecedent ?
Is it Heaven? Hell? Or Oblivion?
Do you remain yourself, Dear Lord Byron?

Do you reminisce folios and fate
In the marble courtyards of paradise
With Mary, since Percy is running late?
Her word choices being much more concise
Than the verses her husband does create,
Though he does greatly value her advice,
For your school of poetry Satanic
Which inflamed poor Southy’s moral panic!

Please forgive if this is not good timing
To discuss my poem—You know, the new one,
For the Sun into the sky is climbing.
You are a genius, no doubt a true one,
Though I cannot quite forgive the rhyming
And pairing Don Juan with your Don Juan
(Yes, I know, ‘twas done quite purposefully,
Still my eye twitches quite beautifully!)

An epic needs a hero, I suppose,
Like Odysseus or Milton’s Satan,
On who, either gifts or wrath God bestows,
In whose place lesser men would be faintin’
So, if an epic I mean to compose,
A hero I must be creatin’
If not created, one must be found
Do you, M’Lord, have one lying around?

This poem—the new one—is not quite epic,
In truth is it just a well rhymed letter
(Maybe not “well” rhymed, but I won’t nitpic)
As I just want it to turn out better
Than former attempts, which turned quite septic
Rhyme and meter need not be a fetter,
They can create order from the chaos,
Or they can be a giant albatross.

Dylan never answers his phone anymore,
And Leonard left no forwarding address.
Edgar says he’ll advise me “nevermore”
While Allan advises me with great finesse.
With Erica I had a brilliant rapport
—her absence worries me, I must confess—
‘Twas after a nudge from Layla, ‘Tis true,
Twas she who had introduced me to you.

‘To whom else could I have written,’ I ask
Feeling your objections from across the veil.
Oh, please, M’Lord, let me finish my task
Please, please, M’Lord, let me spin my tale,
Alby, I know it seems so much to ask,
You’ll feel different once you know more,
If moved you’re not, I’ll trouble you no more.

I say, to whom else could I have written?
Percy? Our Mary could have done better,
He’s lucky to have her so well smitten,
None will say it, but this is a letter,
Was there no one in the whole of Britain
She could find who wouldn’t die a debtor?
One who didn’t already have a wife
Who’d cause our dear sweet Mary much less strife?

Put away those judging eyes, I’m aware
Just how hypocritical I’m sounding
—For another’s wife I’ve been known to share—
Yet the differences are quite astounding
‘Tis true, it is really not my affair
Though I still find her choice most confounding
If Percy is who she wants, then let her
But he’s ne’er been worthy of this letter.

I ask again, to whom could I have writ?
Eliot is a genius, tis true
But in person he’s a bit of a twit.
Southey is a moron, and Turdsworth is too.
Laureate of Lakes and their bullshit
Of poets I respect less, there are few
The choice was clear, rung like a siren,
I’d write my letter to you, Lord Byron!

A hero you’ve always wanted to be
Loved and admired, and maybe sometimes feared.
Still not a common want if you ask me
Most men if asked, would stop and scratch their beard
Thinking they’re heroes of the bourgeoisie
Deserving to be worshipped and revered
But most men are idiots, imbeciles. 
Daily carousing, looking for cheap thrills

Now, I’ve nothing against cheap thrills, Lord knows!
But the depths we plum are much deeper than
The bottom of a pint when the beer flows
They drink, sleep, and go back to work again
We seek truth with the gifts the Muse bestows
We feel sensation far beyond their ken
They think us mad, like a man outside the cave
Watching lights flicker, waiting for the grave

But presently, your Lordship, I must go
I’ve bent and bored your ears for long enough
We’ll meet again, but for now “Cheerio!”
I hope my friendship you will not rebuff
I look forward to letter about po—
ets and poetry and other such stuff.
I will take my leave and not be mouthy
Just be thankful I’m not Bob Southey!