Ancient Poet

Helen Gwinn

Helen Gwinn

An ancient poet
has left behind a house
in which he lived then left
Only his words remain
in the empty bone

all symmetrical
He was no primitive
this spinner from the sea
his sculpture precise
as Michelangelo

three dimensional
with an eye for form
for color that will satisfy
any with Sistine taste
for true subtlety

I hold his home
in my hand’s palm
At his open door I listen
but cannot discern
the distant voice

Yet he was here
I know by the form
For no one builds a house
that will outlive him
of sentimentality

I only wonder
when his last word
in this dome was written
And when he’d gone
who he became


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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2 Responses to Ancient Poet

  1. brought to my first visit to Robert Frost’s home


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