"In Praise of Thomas Chatterton," Charles Wright

Humdrum of helicopter dwindling off to the west,
Full moon in a night or two.
Why do I think of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,
Just seventeen and under the hill over two hundred years ago?
Is it the bulge of the moon?
          Is it the double consonant of wind and the weather?

Both Keats and Wordsworth thought well of him.
The purest English, I think, is Chatterton's, Keats wrote
In a letter to George in Louisville, Kentucky.
Wordsworth referred to him as the sleepless soul that perished in his pride,
Inventing his own vocabulary, dead by his own hand.

I remember seeing a picture once, an inked engraving, I think,
Of Chatterton as a suicide,
Sprawled on his bed, gargoyles and fanged, feathery creatures
Circling above him.
Outside the window, a moon like this one.
          God rest him, and happie bee hys dolle.

From Buffalo Yoga. Some of the short poems in Buffalo Yoga appeared in Five Points. Wright's other poems online include "After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard" and "Appalachian Lullaby." Then there's "The New Poem." You can also read a fairly recent interview published in the Sonora Review.

Thomas Chatterton, now there was a fellow, as the Chatterton Society can tell you.

(Sorry about the shifting typeface; it's the only way I could figure out to preserve Wright's line lengths within the margins.)