Page 49 - Litteratteur Redefining World December issue
P. 49

Litterateur redefining world                      December 2020

                                    THE KING, THE PRINCE, THE POET

                        for Michael McClure (October 20, 1932-May 4, 2020)

                The prince is dead.
                Defender of whales.
                It didn't seem possible.                                           Jack Foley
                The great one
                Who read his work at
                The most famous of all
                San Francisco readings                         In his case
                Six Gallery, 1955.                             (No, he did not have Coronavirus!)
                The one who voiced his poems                   But this wonderful man
                To the marvelous melodies                      Is gone from us.
                Of Ray Manzarek,                               His Angel weeps.
                From whom Janis Joplin                         Her name is Amy
                Stole a song,                                  And she will forever be

                The one who told me,                           His love, his partner
                "People who wear black                         Though there was another
                Are in mourning for themselves."               Who loved him too.
                The king is dead.                              Dear Angel, whose wings
                The one who survived                           Will have to fly in a different way
                Everything                                     To find him now.
                And lived to sing of it,                       I loved them both
                The one who spoke                              And learned from them.
                Chaucer in the original                        She survives to build a world
                So that people might know                      Around herself in which
                Where our language came from.                  Michael forever is
                The king, the prince, the poet                 And isn't
                Who rose from Wichita                          While she goes on.
                And embodied San Francisco                     May she fly, as she always has,
                Who called to the birds near his home          With sweet, compassionate dignity.
                Who answered.                                  May her delicate hands
                "We were making," he told me,                  Build figures (embodiments) that live forever

                "The myth of ourselves."                       As Michael's words
                He survived so much                            Will live forever.
                It seemed likely                               There is a world
                That Death would make an exception             That does not die.
                                                               The Muses

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