The
Makers
by
Howard Nemerov
Who
can remember back to the first poets,
The
greatest ones, greater even than Orpheus?
No one has remembered that far back
No one has remembered that far back
Or
now considers, among the artifacts,
And
bones and cantilevered inference
The
past is made of, those first and gretest poets,
So
lofty and disdainful of renown
They
left us not a name to know them by.
They
were the ones that in whatever tongue
Worded
the world, that were the first to say
Star,
water, stone, that said the visible
And
made it bring invisbles to view
In
wind and time and change, and in the mind
Itself
that minded the hitherto idiot world
And
spoke the speechless world and sang the towers
Of
the city into the astonished sky.
The
were the first great listeners, attuned
To
interval, relationship, and scale,
The
first to say above, beneath, beyond,
Conjurors
with love, death, sleep, with bread and wine,
Who
having uttered vanished from the world
Leaving
no memory but the marvelous
Magical
elements, the breathing shapes
And
stops of breath we build our Babels of.
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