Monday, July 30, 2012

Garrison Keiller

Written 4/8

I'm often puzzled as to whether or not you
Are my poem. I know I wrote you on these pages, 
But, in all honesty you were born on the lips of 
Garrison Keiller, or at least how I heard you 
In my head, as if coming from his mouth,
The rounded, sedentary consonants and full, 
Comforting rumble of his voice lilting 
With each line of you, in that lullabyic way of his, 
As if he wanted the whole world
To sink into the most peaceful sleep,
The most thoughtful slumber ever known to man, 
Woman, or child; taking our hands, 
Or perhaps casting out a line 
(as if these poems were hands, 
Or fishing line, or both) 
And pulling us back into a time, 
Or forward into a time,
When the lilting lines of poetry,
And the singsong voice of the traveling bard, 
Were the most magical sounds in the whole entire world.