Saturday, April 30, 2005

Last Poem of April

The Consolations of Poetry

At four, William Blake saw God
in an upstairs window;
and angels in a tree at ten.
With me it's been the other

way around; glory flashes
on the pane and I see sunlight;
wings rustle in the aspens
and I see just the silver under-

sides of wind-tossed leaves.
And whereas Blake considered death
a mere "removing from one room
to another," I know that once

that door slams behind you,
there's no other room, and no
you to remove to it. So
Blake died singing and I won't.

But I don't whine about it either.
As Dr. Johnson said, it's foolish
to confound annihilation, which is
nothing, with the apprehension

of annihilation, which is dreadful.
I love the accidental, meaningless,
and temporary, and so (in case you
couldn't tell), I'm singing now.

Jim Crenner

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