The Dead Poet - By Al Purdy, the greatest Canadian poet

The Dead Poet
I was altered in the placenta
by the dead brother before me
who built a place in the womb
knowing I was coming:
he wrote words on the walls of the flesh
painting a woman inside a woman
whispering a faint lullaby
that sings in my blind heart still
The others were lumberjacks
backwoods wrestlers and farmers
their women were meek and mild
nothing of them survives
but an image inside an image
of a cookstove and the kettle boiling
- how else explain myself to myself
where does the song come from?
Now on my wanderings:
at the Alhambra's lyric dazzle
where the Moors built stone poems
a wan white face peering out
- and the shadow in Plato's cave
remembers the small dead one
- at Samarkand in pale blue light
the words came slowly from him
- I recall the music of blood
on the Street of the Silversmiths
Sleep softly spirit of earth
as the days and nights join hands
when everything becomes one thing
wait softly brother
but do not expect it to happen
that great whoop announcing resurrection
expect only a small whisper
of birds nesting and green things growing
and a brief saying of them
and know where the words came from
This poem, I feel, is the best one to end my tribute to Purdy. I'm still trying to understand those comments that Purdy is not origional. I would like to know who he is copying! Anyway, I have appreciated the few people turned on to Purdy, and feel bad that others can not understand his simple brilliance. Thanks for the comments, both good and bad (I was glad to see more good ones!) Al Purdy, now in his 80's, lives a simple live in rural Ontario with his wife Eurithe, still writing, still trying to capture the perfect poem, but, like us all, never finds it, and so continues to write. A writer never retires. Thanks again, everyone. - River
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River I thank you again.When I am given a writer to read I do not know I consider it a great gift. This was a great gift.A few years back someone introduced me to a man I did not know. As I sit here I consider one of his poems that starts " I dream of journeys repeatedly" and so it has been.As to your own..never stop. A very wise man said " some die with their music locked up inside them" don't let that happen..my best...Jake
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Thanks a lot Jake! I'm glad to have introduced you to Purdy! - River
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WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS POEM EVEN MEAN!