0n the death of Seamus Heaney
I am trying to write a poem
because I am sad–
and because
summer is ending-
and because
I am trying to write a poem
because–
as the days grow short
and the nights fall so suddenly-
all my summers-
of innocence and invincibility
are coming to an end again.
As I face the ever expanding sadness
of this moment of my life–
As I face the turning of the season–
I am facing a turning in my soul.
I am longing to mark this moment
with something that will capture
it’s meaning.
I long to write something
to add to the map
of the unknown world.
Something to guide a weary traveller.
Something to put in that corner
where it says
“Here be monsters”
Isn’t that what a poem is?
A map of the soul’s geography?
I am trying to write a poem because
I am not a poet
Not really.
I am just a lost dreamer looking
at summer roll past
and needing to write a poem
to hold my sadness.
So here I sit fingers digging
into the soil of my lost
summers like the poet
who died has taught me to do-
trying to write a poem.
