It’s January…
… the dead of winter. A foot of snow on the
ground; ice raining down from a thick layer of gray clouds. Slipping and
sliding, it’s treacherous out there on the street. Dull and gray, with no hint
of sun. On such a day did this poem rescue me.
The Great Poet
Returns
By Mark Strand, from Blizzard of One
|
Blue moon, 2009 |
When the light poured
down through a hole in the clouds,
We knew the great poet was going to show. And
he did.
A limousine with all white tires and stained-glass windows
Dropped him
off. And then, with a clear and soundless fluency,
He strode into the hall.
There was a hush. His wings were big.
The cut of his suit, the width of his tie,
were out of date.
When he spoke, the air seemed whitened by imagined cries.
The
worm of desire bore into the heart of everyone there.
There were tears in their
eyes. The great one was better than ever.
“No need to rush,” he said at the
close of the reading, “the end
Of the world is only the end of the world as you
know it.”
How like him, everyone thought. Then he was gone,
And the world was a
blank. It was cold and the air was still.
Tell me, you people out there, what is
poetry anyway? Can anyone die without even a little?
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