The Poet Speaks
by Brendan Noonan


I drove hours to hear
the poet speak,
in a brownstone lecture hall
to listen to trope and tone
to appreciate meter, line
a maker's command
of the English language.

And the poet spoke
of a sunset with eloquence
balancing light and form,
spoke of the sea
in perfect rhythm
with its shoreline,
stressed syllables like cold
surfaces, word order
a warm breathe mixing

the two now true
as any fog,
any self gratifying language
in which words
are given in place
of an experience.

Where did they go?
That sun, that ocean
veiled by the maker's art
perhaps never more than
a light bulb, a desk.






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