When I was seventeen, lean, and nothing,
you were nothing Id ever seen.
All I knew of you then, Id read
on a book covers shrunken timeline: The Poet
under the gun, driven left and right, worn
from the shrill, small press, betrayed by his sharp
poems: vivid... uneven... imprecise.
Well over a decades passed since your work
put my white hand writing. Shall I now strive
to rush this unsure business down
on paper? Shall I risk leaving it
on soaked tables where it might be found?
Set down this: Living or dead, no one Ive known
means more to me than all you then did.
_ The poem, including the title, is an anagram of the body
and title of Langston Hughess The Negro Speaks of Rivers.
Mike Smith | Mudlark No. 30
Contents | Pound