You Who Are Dead

Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.

You who are dead,
You speak to me; you do not stutter.
Your words ring on in my inner ear
Across these tiny crevices in time.
I feel your ghostly presence indubitably
Gazing over my shoulder as I refine
One more time the world's longest term paper ‑‑

You who are dead,
You egg me on, and I feel you wince
When my criticism cuts too close to the bone.
But your bones are dry, entombed
Miles and miles beyond the deep blue main,
And yet ‑‑
And yet I feel your presence just the same,
And I know you to be my only reader, and my own
Harshest critic, and rightly so.
Your only demand:
Get it right!

You who are dead,
You died too soon.
You know the way it was
And is, and now will be,
Always between us two.
You were, not too long ago,
Flesh and bone, just like me.
You warned us of our foibles and,
Unintentionally, of your own,
Just as we all do. You reproved
The slumbering bureaucrats and toadies who
Plagued your days and mine; you proclaimed
The genetic call to plunging sentiency.
You wore a long series of personae, one mask
Snapped upon the next, and the next,
The next, and each one shockingly superposable upon
Its predecessor. You, iconoclast, a creature
Of your times! But did your times make you ‑‑
Or were you their architect?

You who are dead,
Holding your breath in cautious astonishment,
For the years since your passing have been unkind.
You exited the stage and they
Burned it down behind you,
And now those marvelous ideas and dreams teeter
On the brink of a doubtful relevancy.
How far tumbled down in death! How ignoble,
Dismissing of a soaring life, a bold and daring
Exemplar! What's happened? What's
Gone wrong? And is this the detached bard
Whose mouth can reinterpret your
Muted song?

You who are dead,
You must know that a few of us still linger
Who heard your call; a few of us still remember
Your words, your deeds, and the joys you engendered.
You who are dead,
Whose only voice now is in your written words,
Need not concern yourself with your legacy.
It shall not fade, no matter
The passing of days and the
Raining of dust, or the cloudy reinterpretations
Of jongleurs sitting around tiny red fires
Outside city walls. The accuracy of their tales
Is less important than that they keep your name
Fresh in fresh minds, who in time will find you.
You who are dead may rest, but
Your words, your ideas,
Can never perish.