Before we head out to explore more great well-known poets and their works, I would be remiss in not honoring the extraordinary works of poetic contributors who have left this mortal coil, but whose poetry remains as an influence and source of solace and comfort. Given their value that they displayed here, they continue to be missed and much loved. I offer selected works that they had allowed us to display here at POETIC BLOOMINGS. They will live in perpetuity and remain in our hearts.
In their interview conversation (see link below), Marie Elena made this wonderful observation:
“Writers on the whole are (in my opinion) a brave lot. It takes a measure of courage to put words on display for viewing and assessment of the general public. I can only imagine it takes a heightened sense of commitment and courage for one such as our own Andrea Heiberg, who chooses to write in a foreign language: English.”
Andrea was instrumental in teaching me a lesson that I have come to embrace and to which I have tried to adhere. I have found a bit of humility in my poetic endeavors. Her ambition to express herself in a language that was not her own was, by her own admission, a struggle. But, that she persevered in that regard says much about her. We (she and I) had a rough beginning, but had come to be friends as Andrea sought my opinion on her works and sought my help in correcting the English language that she had adopted for her expression. But my lasting memories of her come in the online chats we had as she fought her dreadful affliction. Those I certainly miss the most, as I will her. Here confirming her commitment to her Anglicized writings is Andrea’s poem, ENGLISH.
ENGLISH, by Andrea Heiberg
Though I love the sound of my mother’s voice,
the stories are stories
and the facts are facts
and when told in English,
there’re just as much stories and facts than any Dane could tell them
in any language
and just as much English.
So, please Mom, up in Heaven,
that English bears the signs of worldwide cultures
from the north,
up in Denmark.
And how I love that someone added
Mom, I tell you this in English
though tears drop
down my cheeks
and whether they drop in Danish or in English,
I don’t know.
I just miss you.
This person whom we had first met at Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer, had been one of our most loyal and consistent contributors. She often offered such encouraging comments, but wasn’t adverse to be frank in her comments when warranted. Vivienne Blake frequented many of the well known poetry sites with equal aplomb and earned the respect of many poets far and wide. As with all of our poets, it was difficult to choose just one poem from her portfolio. Another friend and poet gone too soon! She expresses the beauty of her soul in this piece entitled, THE LINDEN.
THE LINDEN, by Vivienne Blake
My skeleton is
bared in purest form,
in slumber for a time through winter’s chill.
Equinoctial gales send my branches wantonly waving,
’til comes the rain, replenishing my strength for summer’s work.
I stir again. My nascent leaves begin to bud and burst out green.
Birds arrive in feathered phalanx. Calm, all is still.
I preen my regal form in fecund glory.
Summer’s heavy cloak bears down on me,
flower pennants brown to seed. My leaves are liquid gold,
now winter nears.
as my robe
frost and snow,
in solitary splendour, I reign
Salvatore Buttaci was a friend and mentor to all whose lives he had graced. A man of a strong faith and one who embraced his Sicilian heritage with great pride and respect. He had been a teacher/professor and had continued to “teach” us all through his poetry and flash fiction, two of the strong suits of his writing life. You were honored to get encouragement from Sal, always considered high praise from one of such a giving and loving heart. I am forever grateful for that. Here we celebrate his life through his poetic words, SHADOWS IN MY MEMORY.
SHADOWS IN MY MEMORY, by Salvatore Buttaci
Over time and distance
I contemplate the love we knew,
Replay those happy days
Now shadows in my memory.
It’s so hard believing
Love lies buried beneath the years
We walked the world as one,
Certain love would last forever.
You are somewhere out there.
I am adrift on lonely seas.
Evening is a shroud…
Do you likewise mourn for our love?
The promises we made,
Meant to be shared, not divided,
Have all been tossed away,
Ashes in the barrel of time.
These nights I go to sleep
Where we always laugh and dream
And once more renew vows
We one day swore before God.
A poet that took a circuitous course in his short incarnation here at POETIC BLOOMINGS, he was another poet we discovered at Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer. Adding to our international appeal on our humble patch of sod, Dyson McIllwain wrote of his Scottish background and travels, in his inimitable style laced with his self-deprecating humor. He surely seemed to march to a different drum, to a different cadence, which happens to be the poem selected.
TO A DIFFERENT CADENCE, by Dyson Douglas McIllwain
We march to our own beat,
the sweet syncopation that drives
every step; adept at keeping your feet
when others about you are losing their heads.
The pipes blare and wail; a tale told in the hold
of a Celtic clutch and in as much, deeply.
The snap of snare is crisp and a wisp of generations
lives within it. You didn’t begin it, but carry
the torch of your clan and your kin.
Your pace is halting but sure,
and you’re raising your banner high,
a sky full of past and an earth full of futures
converge in the present to give the gift
that life possesses. A different drum;
a heart in living rhythm.
We miss all of these honored voices and their contributions to this site. I’d like to close with an excerpt from poet McIllwain’s final poem, IF MY WORDS SHOULD DIE:
“They will live as they had lived in me,
much life to give within their breath,
and I am sure I will be remembered
well then after death.”
These poets will indeed be remembered. Rest well, good and gentle poets!