Mentor

In my youth
you took me on a
walking tour of Wales -
my ancestral home still unvisited -
by means of words alone.
I heard the birds,
and running feet upon the sand,
indeed showed me
all creatures great and small,
seen from your house upon
the Welsh and reverent shore.

You taught me:
- to hear the fluid tone of words,
the lively pronunciation of the English tongue
through a Welshman’s lips.
- that poetry is all aloud,
spoken and not read,
or the meaning’s lost
and the writing’s been in vain.

Through your words I met
so-called statesmen –
cowards really –
and heard the agony
of loosing loved ones, and
of dying children
in the Blitz.

On your written pages
I found you describing love,
and lust,
and metaphors
of fundamental humanness
that stay forever in the memory.

And while I don’t think much
of the liquid muse you chose -
that you abused
until she killed
prematurely -
on any sober day,
I would argue,
you or’matched the
English poets of
your age.

And this Welshman –
by distant derivation only now -
chooses to member you,
as common human clay;
who wrote his heart upon each page,
and occasionally,
just occasionally –
as any good Welshman should –
gave the praise to God.



James Gagiikwe © 2008