I pray from time to time asking for a sign
of my identity as a poet. As a cradle Baptist
it’s a hard habit to break, the selfish plea à la
“Lord, give me a parking space by the door!”
It’s absolute laughable theology as raven-eyed
children are bombed in Gaza. But I still ask.
Your brief dalliance as a Baptist evangelist
encouraged me years ago, back when I preached.
You even used the word calling to describe your
exodus to chase poetry. Quite dramatic, Jim, you
up on your roof announcing to God and the Universe
something like “I’m sorry, but I must become a POET.”
I wonder what your father really thought about it.
Then again he bought you a typewriter, didn’t he?
To have a father believe in you rivals the Magi’s gifts.
But if honest, that’s what I’m questioning these days—
the call. Did I mishear? Should I have been a dentist?
I read your pride in later years at the fact all your books
remained in print, a sign you would not be forgotten.
Ah, there’s the scare—will anyone remember me?
Such was the early fear crouching at your farmhouse door
wasn’t it, Jim? That in your young ambition nothing
would happen. That all those poems would amount
to nothing. Nada. That fabulous poet of Mother Russia
told you such things don’t matter. But oh man they do.
“ to have a father believe in you rivals the Magi’s gift .” Love it ! So deep and beautiful !
Good one John!