An original poem in honor of another one


Today my wonderful used bookstore find

Winds its way out of backpack; The Actual World[i]

Its name, and it in lies

Poetry that should, actually, seize the world.

We see what the poet paints: the October Farm while we

follow the Charles; The Hen House and Shed at the Museum.

And then on Binney Ave we sit bolt upright

At the shift to Christmas Eve with three

Hungarians!  Kings, thieves, Catholics, heroes.

Then nothing is the same.

Still further in we go to

Winter dinner filled with beets

And greens and smoke to the sky

And, no doubt, wide eyes at all the

Dancing and those paper rings.

Finally out we walk in line

To mushroomed woods with

Mother and gypsy and time.

Ah, the pain. The pain of beautiful words

That bring to us our misplaced joy then stay.

They stay to send the day away unwittingly, unknowingly,

Because with them we see just a corner of heaven:

Here, in the Actual World.

[i] Funkhouser, Erica. The Actual World. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997.

CSS 8 November 2016


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