Elegy: August 2013
You will write no more poems, Seamus Heaney.
The bald fact in an online list of recent deaths
Instilled a quick shocked chill. I was reluctant
To believe it, till I saw the New York Times.
You have left us, master-maker, sonnet-savvy,
Alive to the redolence of farmland as a dark
Unblown rose, alert to the guttural muse
And to the immortelles of perfect pitch.
Who else could work the stubborn stuff of English
With such a sure hand, with such a wise mind,
Whose cadences caught me at age fifteen,
Whose words urged me to try and do likewise?
I falter at this task, as you would not have.
So many poets can commemorate
With better skill than I, a middle-aged scribbler
Astonished into awkward lamentation.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
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Written on 2017-06-02 at 09:35
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