A Ladies’ Man

Feb 17 2012

I listen to the young poet

who has grown old.

Who sings

in the same smoky voice,

his repertoire of notes

as frugal as before,

but now, even lower.

Weary, I presume

or just well-used,

but forcing me

to listen closer.

A high-pitched tone

from the head, the throat

has no strength, no heft.

But this rumbling basso profundo

comes from the depths.

He sounded wise, and old

when I heard him first, back then;

kept listening

as he grew

to own it.

He speaks about death

with detached composure,

as if they were old familiar friends.

The state of his soul,

what he will have left

behind.

He was always mindful, of course

as you’d expect a poet,

but gracefully grown older;

more resigned

fatalistic

at peace.

His measured speech, his rueful mirth

as he gently demurs,

when asked to consider

our shared predicament

here on earth.

Did he think he could change the world

one song at a time

listener by listener?

Or is he too humble for that,

and simply wrote of Suzanne

because he missed her?

This ladies’ man,

unhampered by fame

but stung by that depiction.

Who understood the crack  —

or how, as he asked

could the light get in?

I do not hear music

when I write,

the words come unadorned,

my verse

barely spoken.

Another poet

ignored, even scorned.

While he has ascended

the tower of song,

the object of envy, and honour.

And remembered

long after he’s gone.

We’ll say kaddish

for him,

daven, and pray

leave a stone on his grave.

Sing

his Hallelujah chorus.