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Sundays, like a stanza break Or shower’s end of all applause, For some old unexplaining sake The optimistic tread these shores, As lonely as the dead awake Or God among the dinosaurs.
From The Boys at Twilight: Poems 1990–1995 by Glyn Maxwell. Copyright © 2000 by Glyn Maxwell. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
In memory of Agha Shahid Ali When a poet leaves to see to all that matters, nothing has changed. In treasured places still he clears his head and writes. None of his joie-de-vivre or books or friends or ecstasies go with him to the piece he waits for and begins, nor is he here in this. The only work that bonds us separates us for all time. We feel it in a handshake, a hug that isn’t ours to end.
Some poems, right some poems. I’m a lover of poems. And yes, we lovers of poems must stick together. Don’t mind me. Pardon? Glenn? Glenn? Glenn. It is nice to meet you, Glenn. You are thinking you are in luck. Because look, a strange old man has joined you at the bar. How fortunate you are this fine day. I beg your pardon? Indeed. The secret’s out.