The Man Who Wrote the Books
It is better said by those in the know, not
I, who only saw him two or three times,
no more, and then only awkwardly.
Yet I think I thought I knew him, this
hurried, harried, hurrying man, easily
distracted into the things on his mind.
Whether standing in the windy sparseness
of his Pico fastness or on the rise behind
Sayles Hall, peering out at the singers
from Coimbra of a warm, sun-bright
noontime, he could not but escape
into his craft, the aluminum wings
of dream merely a belated realizing
of another way to navigate among
the dark stones of his imagined seas,
with no time to blink back at the wake.
May 29, 2010
The subject of this unpublished poem is the writer Dias de Melo.
Imagem de http://bibliotecamunicipaldiasdemelo.blogspot.ca/2010_10_01_archive.html