The silence you note does not represent
drought. It is frozen words under his pen.
Witness his Greatness tapping thoughts
surfing the sea, sailing on heights that us mere
mortals imagine unreal. The ceaseless tapping
goes on and on.
The tap-tapping goes on into silence
broken by a pause – Saturday calls
Maestro, it is time to play. Words don’t play;
note the form, a line must be perfect.
Is this a sonnet? No no! This is an elegy.
That look. Stare death in his face,
Damn him and write. A line must be true
To the form. Those words wont die.
(For Wayne Brown, Caribbean poet)