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 The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2017-06-02 at 09:35

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I agree with Pony. This is a fine elegy.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
You did him justice with your elegy.