George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron ByronIn 1985, a British Romantic Period Literature class changed my life. The poetry of Byron, Shelley, and Keats wakened in me a passion for writing. I determined to somehow make a career of it—and somehow feed my children.

Since then I’ve worked exclusively in publishing, first for game companies, now in education. I also continue to write, study, and promote poetry. It’s my opinion that poetry used to belong to the people, until academics stole it. It’s high time to steal it back from them.

Lester : June 22, 2017 8:53 am : Poetry

A glassblower’s sun
Sky of glazed porcelain clouds
A crack of thunder

—Lester Smith

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To Gygax

Lester : June 1, 2017 10:18 am : Announcements, Game Design, Poetry

“Gary Gygax Gen Con 2007” photo by Alan De Smet, CC x 3.0

I had thought this sonnet lost! But I found it yesterday, while sorting through some old boxes of games and memorabilia, and I don’t think I’ve shared it publicly before.

I wrote it for Gary Gygax after having worked with him on the Dangerous Journeys role-playing game. Like countless hobby gamers, I was introduced to role-playing through Advanced Dungeons & Dragons, in my case the first edition.

While many people were involved in publishing AD&D, I think it’s safe to credit Gary as not just the author, but also the man who gave it flight. This was my way of saying thanks.

To Gygax

While just a child, I learned a magic spell
that let me gaze out through another’s eyes,
and in that manner walked beneath the skies
of worlds where heroes, maids, and monsters dwell.
I shared poor Crusoe’s fearful joy to tell
a print in sand. I marvelled at the size
of Gulliver in far-off ports. The cries
of Barsoom’s lord, as back to earth he fell,
I felt, and with him mourned the story’s end.
And then, as Samwise sailed into the West,
left me behind, I met a marvelous mage
whose grimoire taught a wondrous spell, to send
my mind in guises of its own to quest
in endless worlds—and never a last page.

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My Vision of Hell – Level 4

Lester : January 7, 2017 9:46 am : Poetry

Chapter XLVIII

(from The Pastime Machine, a novel in sonnets)

“And now the air took on a barnyard odor;
our raft passed through a realm peopled by scarabs
with human faces—whites, blacks, Asians, Arabs—
each one rolling his own ball of ordure.

“Tiresias told me, ‘These are souls of bankers,
drug lords, pimps, arms dealers, and their ilk,
who for the love of diamonds, gold, and silk,
poorly spent their lives. Each one hankered
to own the most, as if life were a game
that they could win. Their punishment seems fit.’

“I watched them play, each shouting, ‘I’m the shit!’
Many had been souls of worldly fame;
now each trumpeted a crappy ball.
Though I’ll confess, one guy Trumped them all.”

—Lester Smith

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