Hands

To Philip Lavine (1928-2015 USA) I saw the announcement. The one of your passing. It’s just that it came to me among all other messages, one that said you had left for other lands, but I did not stop to look at you on the road. Today I heard your voice full of memories, ancient poet. The lyrics of your weary hands, those of the man of an exploited people, emerging even more powerful than ever. I was just so busy fighting among the wreckage of dead words, that I did not see the poetry of your verses passing next to me towards their eternal rest. © All rights reserved. Author Marcela Villar M. 2015 Written in my car on East Lake Sammamish, in the Seattle area, WA USA, on the 21st of February of 2015, about the death of the great poet Philip Levine on Saturday, a winner of the Pulitzer Prize. He was perhaps the only Poet Laureate I wanted to meet, and I know many poets awarded with many prizes, but I'm oh so hard to impress. However, I felt an affinity with him. He is from that generation of poets never to be born again. I close my eyes to hear him read his poetry, and that is Poetry itself, even though I've only had that pleasure thanks to NPR and similar sites. I wanted the chance to meet him, now we have to leave it for another time. I love you, great poet; my eyes are filled with rain coming out of this forest that surrounds me. Poetry weeps for you...