Special: Dead as a Doornail

Sometimes, when the room is empty
I close my eyes and picture long ago
the moving pen of Sappho, Roethke, Akhmatova
they were all long ago to me
for I am living,
and they are not.

And to me it seems
that Sappho wrote to Aphrodite as we write to God,
asking for love and forgiveness,
asking for strength to do what is right
at the feet of her gently-clad Goddess,
she prayed for the things that our eyes give for reading.

As for Roethke, that man's heart is sad
he lingers long in the depth of his own despair
and ignores flowers blowing secrets in his ear
the fair, broad sky with angels dancing in the blue
all he knows is the pain in his heart.

Of course, my poor Akhmatova
who had not even an Aphrodite to pray to
an image to keep her strong and happy
means she tried to keep the first
with the sorrows of Roethke, also
touching our hearts with her ruthless skill
applied to teaching us the dark parts of living
that all Poets much touch with two fingers to know
the value of their sacred art.


To them, I keep their words
locked inside my heart
and cup my hands to keep them near my heart, as they flutter
far from here, to other minds
who do not love them,
as I do.

And one day, my friends
I will lay a copy of my own heart at your feet, somehow
and you will know me, love me
as I know and love
you....



Someday, I, too
 hope to be Great.