What words? Good ones:
He gently boosted the established, or nouveau
up and comers
a gentle critic to build, and warm;
clean or correct.
A sculptor: pulled out merits,
assessed flaws. Of good judgement.
Trusted. For his talent, lived
from cheque to cheque.
When he went missing they didn't talk about
his book of poetry. Instead they
dragged the river. And should it be needed,
this item saved for the obituary.
But he would emerge, as a poet,
when he chose to emerge.
Three weeks later. Floating to the shore.
Dead stars in his eyes. Thumbs up.
4 comments:
Oh, Andie, I hope someone writes an elegy like this for me when I die...
(The last two stanzas: gasp!)
I hate to do it, but your first two stanzas are a bit too abstract...can you give me something a bit too concrete?
Also, is the poem meant to be bold? If so, why?
Argh. "A bit more concrete," it should have said...
Thanks Ariel!
Do not throw yourself into the river to obtain this elegy. I'll write you a living one if it helps!!!
I have no idea why it went bold, that wasn't intentional. I blame ghosts. He was an editor, too.
I actually liked the idea of giving something "a bit too concrete".
I'll try to get more concrete on details, I just didn't know where to start. (that was the inadequate part of the elegy)
Where I wanted to go: he gave so many "a leg up" with his words, and yet either his own words or someone else's gave him "a leg up" over the bridge one day.
(They just found his body this week, he'd been missing for a month almost exactly. Edmonton poet, freelancer, journalist, critic. A very good, kind man. The fact he was missing a print deadline was what alerted them to start looking for him, that's how reliable and stalwart he was. Despite also being creative and highly artistic/literary himself)
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