Poetica Magazine

Poetica Magazine

Elegy for my Poetry Friends
Lynne D. Soulagnet

When I think of the poets I’ve known

I picture them sitting around an oak table

laughing and kibbitzing, noshing

on cheese and crackers, slices of fruit.

Their words fly like hummingbirds

across the room to nestle in corner nests

until a poem emerges, and, like a visitor,

makes its presence known.

Perhaps they are in heaven,

or maybe even down below

arguing about split infinitives,

where a comma or period

should or shouldn’t go.

Their work, a flame brightly burning,

lives on though they are gone.

I know their words like braille, their voices

no longer silenced by the grave when I speak.

I press their chapbooks against my breast,

hold them close to my pounding heart.