Never let it be said that I, Tallis Steelyard, turn my back on the beautiful ones who by a glance, or a flick of the head, draw me to their side.
I stand on the Old Promenade, watching the moon, large and beautiful, as it hangs there.
And the lady hints that a poem is called for.
Lesser poets would retire to their garrets and sit scratching paper with a pen plucked from the buttocks of some fowl. But my art is of a different water. Let the lustre of the scene suffuse my very being and allow the words to slip, like drops of ambrosia from the lips of a sleepy goddess.
The moon indeed would see me right
Large hearted mistress of the night
With silver sheen and frosty light
She at least would pay.
An artist to her very core
She will my grudging critics thaw
She’ll understand me, no one more
And never say me nay
So gentle orb now hanging still
Your light the slow tide’s waves doth fill
You bend my thoughts to match your will
Your beauty bids me stay
And the deed done what more is there to say. The night is but young, the city awaits and a poet with silver in his pocket is an unnatural creature. Thus and so, matters must be remedied lest this strange heterodoxy be noticed and I am called to act with decorum. Such lapses into tedium are to be defied, the wise man shuns them. The sluggard gapes, slack mouthed at the coins in his hand, but the poet knows the words which will set all to rights.
Tapster, more wine for our company.
As his manager and the one who far too often gets let to pick up his bar tap, I feel that it must be confessed that Tallis is a published author, his work is available for your delectation and delight at