“Cast a cold eye on Life, on Death. Horseman, pass by.” –W.B. Yeats
Steve,
I opened the reading at Sacred Grounds tonight, just like what you did for years. Except this time there was no “hear ye, hear ye!” but a sad announcement. Your poems led the way: Minotaur, A Thin Line Between the City and the Sea, and A Poem of the Wounded God. There were just a handful of poets there. Has the wind changed? The landscape that we found ourselves in five, six years ago is no longer, as we file out of the picture one by one.
The city, its streets and cafes, the crows outside your window, the luring women in North Beach and then the gyre and the spiral, the gods and goddesses and the myths… You preferred to wander in these vivid worlds than work at the bleak 9 to 5 job. You are a lover. A romantic. It was between Yeats’ tomb and San Francisco that your love affair lasted until the very end. But the heart, no matter how you look at it, was wounded.
Thank you for your very touching words, Clara. “Time / is that which / out of which / I am made: / I am time /…Love / like everything else / is the discovery of Time.”
I wrote this for Steve:
ON THE DEATH OF YOUR FRIEND
my son sent me,
from Arabia,
an image
of proud
horsemen
on the desert
sand,
men of vibrant
importance
whose skill and intelligence
was obvious from the way they rode
when you told me
of Steve’s death
I thought of that
image:
death as a
horseman, yes
but even more
pride of intellect
the joy of being
a rider of thought
we are all
horsemen
& Pegasus
is both wild & tame
.
I know he loved you
& I wish him well
in the deep after-living
for many reasons
but above all
for that
Steven was a poet more than any other thing. He loved the art, lived it and passed through it. Our Sargent at Arms, or lead on hitter. The man that did not need a microphone and who always had a word to say about what you said, your poem or life and a great storyteller.
Steve became the wounded god in the Grand Canyon as the sun set and the walls of that great abyss melted into flesh.
Together, we entered mythic terrain, wandering through the labyrinths of language to find something at the core, something more than the Minotaur. Our journeys are recorded in poems that attempt to capture the light, depth and gestures of the many experiences we shared. And though the great Atlantic came between us, really it is only a thin line incapable of keeping friends apart as death itself is a thin line unable to divide us.
Dear Clara, I wanted to come to Sacred tonight but could not make it. Steve was a sweetheart, and I am so sorry he has gone. I can never write poems, but I wrote one for Steve on Thursday morning. Spanish horses seems to be a theme… Sus.
Flying Home
one foot in the old world
one in the new
Spanish guitars trilling
words, yes only words
the tone, the color, the sound
Spanish horses rearing
hoofing cloven silver
scarlet vessel brimming
vital blood red wine