For James Richardson Gerard, juke-step Jerry, little wrestler, soul-mess of sinew and mind-sight, fired spark, joyed Jesuit, grief-clog too, but a pan-flute in every @3Ave@1, you half-nelson the syntax dandies, ram them to canvas, sit upon and pin the god-fops, minions of ghost tomes, trite chimes, though you walk among them, too, jig and roar of black-robed stroll in golden-grove and choral iambs. You were, yes, that falcon flight, the labor, soar, and dive, but buzzard nose for carrion, too, sniffed your own, knew, alone, the rot, rope-knot or buckle of roots under-on rock, your gowned back to roses, rosaries, but eyes a song gone up, too, sickly little wings stuck in God-glue air: how long? You sang one dialectic flight, sir-the only kind. How high can the swallow swoop, how low the falcon grieve, relieve, in fall till pinions hold him, @3there@1, to kill? Light- weight, mutt, heaver of iron, scrap, feather: I believe the hurt, believe you saw what you saw. Copyright © 1999 by The Modern Poetry Association. This poem appears in the June 2000 issue of @3Poetry@1 Magazine. http://www.poetrymagazine.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAT GAL O' MINE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: OSCAR HUMMEL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NORTH WIND TO DUTIFUL BEAST MIDWAY BETWEEN DIAL & FOOT OF GARDEN CLOCK by MARIANNE MOORE HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 3 by EZRA POUND |