Bereavement

I never got the chance to meet
The master before he passed away. Should I regret
A thing that was impossible, given
That I am a nothing, a transparency
Invisible in his light?
A momentary tangent as I darted across
His conscious sphere: he knew me
(If ever he knew me at all)
As another admirer, anonymous,
Who swiftly rejoined the throbbing throng,
Who happened to write a guileless letter,
Never expecting requital. And yet he answered,
Responded to my dull petition, and signed it
"Yours sincerely."
Yes, he was quite the gentleman,
And if I had had occasion to greet him
(With shaky knees, butterflies abounding)
What would I have said?
That I was charmed by his endeavors,
Inspired, inspirited, and warmed?
Whatever praise I pile up in words
Amounts to minor-key meagerness--
My wippens are busted, my arrangements sound trite,
My notes swoon and sour as soon as they're struck,
For I lack his lyrical dash, his ready cache of rhymes
So intricately woven into lines; ergo,
Any tribute I clobber together must flop,
And you won't hear it here.
Instead,
I'll lower the fallboard, step back, recede,
And retire behind this tattered curtain
To mourn the loss.

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

I enjoyed reading this piece but found myself intrigued by what famous writer moved you to pen these words? I felt that bit of context was missing here and wanted to know more. I'll be honest I don't know if I would be brave enough to write a writer I idolize. Nice work on this Wilyem.