A Tribute
The form of this poem is a sestina
Ichabod…Ichabod…Ichabod…
A worthy wight by the name of Ichabod,
once tarried in the glen of Sleepy Hollow.
An area portent of Legend,
the galloping Hessian
not least to chill the marrow of one’s bones.
A tale told on winter evenings by the fire,
the haunting spirit of the Headless Horseman.
A pedagogue was Ichabod,
not a tried and trusted horseman,
his steed corresponding with the figure of Ichabod;
an animal once broken, yet a spirit with some fire,
by the unlikely name of Gunpowder, looking hollow,
and starveling ribs, a rack of bones,
but with a gleaming eye to put one in mind of the Hessian.
Katrina Van Tassel dispels our schoolmaster’s fear of the Hessian,
clouding Ichabod’s dread of the Headless Horseman,
more concerned
