We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
(R.I.P) Robin William 1951 - 2014
You’ve been away, your hair blond from sun—
not seeing you serves
the opposite effect,
distance gives over to intimacy.
The wake from a boat. The city anchored
across the river, a series of shadows.
I crumple the paper from an ice cream cone.
Your hand rests on the iron arm of the bench.
Is this what the end
affords—no further use for worry?
It’s getting dark earlier again;
there won’t be many more days as mild as this.
Let’s sit here a little while more.