Thursday, July 01, 2004


Every so often this piece of paper surfaces in my life -- a poem by Dick Lourie -- sent to me years ago by a friend. I could copy the poem into the computer. But I like the piece of paper. It's yellow and water stained and torn at the edges. It's got tack marks and old tape from the various places I've put it up over the years. It reminds me of Jean and gives the poem life.


and what about just those few hours each day
you said you would keep clear for writing poems
here it is sunset in upstate New York
all day good things : visits letters music
food but nothing at all in your notebook
no dreams no politics no loving
why didn't you sit down right away fresh
early morning coffee at the desk limber
and start to write now it's too late again

and in your bed tonight what will you say
to the legion of dead poets who walk
into your sleep like brothers and sisters
coming home and insist that tomorrow
might be your last day alive they say "hurry
soon enough you will have to be silent --
before that speak and speak we are listening"

Dick Lourie

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