Zen in the Art of Writing

That teasing him is not my end.
Yet tease I do and feign to look away,
Or else that secret self will hide all day.
I run and play some simple game,
A mindless leap
Which from sleep summons forth
The bright beast, lurking, whose preserves
And gaming ground? My breath,
My blood, my nerves.
But where in all that stuff does he abide?
In all my rampant seekings, where's he hide?
Behind this ear like gum,
That ear like fat?
Where does this mischief boy
Hatrack his hat?
No use. A hermit he was born
And lives, recluse.
There's nothing for it but I join his ruse, his game,
And let him run at will and make my fame.
On which I put my name and steal his stuff,
And all because I sneezed him forth With sweet creation's snuff.
Did R. B. write that poem, that line, that speech?
No, inner-ape, invisible, did teach.
His reach, clothed in my flesh, stays mystery;
Say not my name.
Praise other me.

TROY

My Troy was there, of course,
Though people said: Not so.
Blind Homer's dead. His ancient myth's
No way to go. Leave off. Don't dig.
But I then rigged some means whereby
To seam my earthen soul or die.