Post by mfwilkie on Jun 1, 2007 3:53:34 GMT -5
I
Mystic River and Boston’s Jews are talking
ancient fires; abstracts mention churches, but
not one synagogue– history resurrected.
II
The baklava was as old as Algiers,
but his palette didn’t tumble to it.
This Willis, this Ohio Willis, was
really born for the world. He fits she-who-
invented-everything. (Always the maven–
this thread of leaning child to womanhood.)
III
What could have been sat just across from me;
the same gift of art inked around her leg,
the history of a ghost behind her chair; the name
that distance still finds hard to write;
a daughter lost to someone’s foolish passion,
A gnome without a Willis joi de vivre.
IV
Can’t divorce myself from this city’s air.
It would be like crawling inside his death,
giving up joy which poets seldom own.
Blake says, life delights in life. And Walcott–
It’s a poet’s duty as much as the saints.
The privilege is to honor where I walk,
I think.
Mystic River and Boston’s Jews are talking
ancient fires; abstracts mention churches, but
not one synagogue– history resurrected.
II
The baklava was as old as Algiers,
but his palette didn’t tumble to it.
This Willis, this Ohio Willis, was
really born for the world. He fits she-who-
invented-everything. (Always the maven–
this thread of leaning child to womanhood.)
III
What could have been sat just across from me;
the same gift of art inked around her leg,
the history of a ghost behind her chair; the name
that distance still finds hard to write;
a daughter lost to someone’s foolish passion,
A gnome without a Willis joi de vivre.
IV
Can’t divorce myself from this city’s air.
It would be like crawling inside his death,
giving up joy which poets seldom own.
Blake says, life delights in life. And Walcott–
It’s a poet’s duty as much as the saints.
The privilege is to honor where I walk,
I think.
