Sunday, February 12, 2017
"Survivor"––poem by Dorothy
Survivor
(for all who find they have outlived the rest)
The lovers who left,
flesh on flesh,
then devastation.
And the others,
friends,
the fellow who rode
a motorcycle
and wore British military
shorts and carried a
swagger stick.
What was he trying
to prove, to be?
The commanding presence,
brilliant being,
spellbinding teacher,
published poet,
art as religion,
everyone wanted to
come near,
died too young.
The gourmet cook,
fastidious,
wore handsome clothes,
exquisite taste,
vast classical collection,
he never realized he was gay.
The polymath genius who
grew up on a farm,
had lived abroad,
knew owners of
French winery,
sent note over at Antoine's
(brandy aflame on the table)
surprised the haughty waiter,
tasted and said "not as good as I
expected, but will do,"
talked for hours––history, politics,
literature, art, Dr. Johnson back again––we were spellbound
by his flow, never stopped,
first words likely "and furthermore."
The teacher who had
been cured
by the gracious
hand of good,
poetry as sacred practice,
all is infinite mind.
The professor
at the outdoor party,
too much wine,
went bounding
into the stream, naked,
wouldbe Pan.
The long time partner,
everyone's big sister,
her theme,
"I shall be sad
and say nothing."
False true love.
Now, no more amazements,
no heady discourses,
no more tumbling
into despair,
everyone taller and
younger now,
no way to tell.
Last one left at the party,
all alone,
why I am writing these words.
Dorothy Walters
February 12, 2017
