In the spirit of such neato literary endeavors as William Shakespeare’s Star Wars: Verily a New Hope by Ian Doescher, last year I wrote a poem entitled “Elegy Written for a Country Space Opera.” The poem is adapted from a classic elegy by Thomas Gray: “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” Wanting to do something special, I also commissioned original artwork by comic book artist Jay P. Fosgitt and posted it on my other blog.
Encouraged by the latest riveting trailer for Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, I am re-posting the poem here. Mingling Star Wars references with Gray’s elegiac form, it expresses my mixed emotions at seeing the beloved franchise of my childhood taken over by Disney. Such a transfer of ownership brings great uncertainty, but also great promise.
But before I subject you to the poem, here is a delightful short video on a similar theme. This is a great bit with Patton Oswalt and Conan O’Brien. Oswalt explains his dubious–yet wonderfully heartening–attempt to introduce his daughter to Star Wars. In doing so, he speaks adeptly about the nature of falling under a fanciful realm’s charm.
And now, for your consideration and hopefully enjoyment, is my poem.
Elegy Written for a Country Space Opera
Twin sunsets fade like knells of parting day,
As whistling droids whir–steadfast–o’er a dune,
The fanboy starward dreams his leery way,
But leaves that world to Disney all too soon.
Now silence cloaks a landscape raised for mirth,
He treads its gravel waves, rock mem’ry spice,
Like one who shirked the moisture farmer’s worth,
Then nearly perished, sown within Hoth’s ice.
For such, the glimm’ring landscape of the night
Fades out, marked by the telling Mynock shrieks,
Save where a vast white screen now waits for light,
To cast again the Falcon fandom seeks.
Can any reprise hope to freshen lore,
Which strikes back with new lessons harder learned?
Son’s eyes reflected matching suns before,
Tear-glazed, their father’s pyre light returned.
Let not awakened icons wear out joy,
First witnessed as wide grins in Yavin’s nave;
Though medaled hero stood then as a boy,
The paths of sequels lead but to the grave.
So too, the fanboy grays into a man,
No more to pilot drive-in playground swings.
His mind a hermitage, this would-be Han
Now smuggles fondness for his old musings.
Full many a boy of Jedi’s worth now lives,
The dark nonfiction caves of this world bear;
Full many a Leia to drubbed Luke now gives
A savior’s kiss in grounded city air.
Far from the cineplex, this rustic youth,
Who read dire word crawls from a pickup bed,
Was led by Ben Kenobi’s tailored truth;
Delusions grand–Yodaic in his head–
Forbade by life’s rude lot prequels to pen,
This almost-George, no Empire’s rod did sway;
He left the greatest tale of Anakin
Unwritten long ago and far away.
“Oh, be wan,” gibes Salacious ‘neath the sand.
“Would all could rest their heads on Disney’s hearth,
Who’ve lived within, like each new rebel band,
The bosom of their Father and their Darth.”