Lanes of Learn’d Bastards

Digging through stacks of dusty old notebooks, manuscript piles, and ancient issues of Writer’s Chronicle, I actually found the object of my lazy and nostalgic adventure in office archaeology. But that’s not what I’m writing about here.

Even better was finding the little poem a few of us MFA grads wrote while sitting through the commencement speech and role call. I won’t say how many years have passed since then, but it has been enough to make this seem an artifact. So here’s the poem, written by KC, Athena, John, and me. It doesn’t have a title, but it doesn’t seem to need one (how very postmodern). And it speaks of learn’d bastards with greatest affection, as that’s what we all strive to be (or, unconsciously become).

Eight graduates with Fine Arts Masters,
Commenced ‘tween lanes of learn’d bastards,
Clad in gown and caps,
Collectively thinking, perhaps
‘twould be better if this thing
would go faster.

More love for the MFA degree can be found here.

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