Sinecure
for Edwin Arlington Robinson
I never worked in a town
called Utopia, but I walked
the streets of a dying city
notepad in hand, reading
(believing) the press of its
past, which was printed
on the bricks of buildings
that gave up the souls of
their street-level stores.
I bathed in local stillness,
lamented the lost lust, yet
never earning a cent.
(Laid off reporters sometimes
write for nothing, poets
for even less.) But you wrote
dirges at the Library of Congress
compensated, eventually elevated
to knight template of pedestrian poets.
8 thoughts on "Sinecure "
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This a great juxtaposition with Edwin Arlington Robinson. It’s stunning, Lee! I continue to be impressed with your poetry this month.
I don’t know EAR but after reading this, I want to. Love that first stanza so so much.
What an incredible poem, Lee! The way you capture such large concepts and places with precision and relatability is amazing!
Your opening invites us to walk with you:
“I never worked in a town
called Utopia, but I walked
the streets of a dying city”
and then to let the experience wash over us all, together:
“I bathed in local stillness,”
I really enjoyed reading this. Thanks for crafting it and sharing it with us.
Great tribute.
Love the stanza enjambments!
And your reporters vision is almost heartbreaking.
” streets of a dying city
notepad in hand, reading
(believing) the press of its
past, which was printed
on the bricks of buildings
that gave up the souls of
their street-level stores.”
Oh!
I agree with Bill. You have me from
I never worked in a town
called Utopia, but I walked
the streets of a dying city
Shew!
I’m with you, Lee, in more ways than one. EAR certainly lived a charmed life, didn’t he?
Another bitter, laid off reporter here, too.
Agree with others on this incredible visual and sensory invitation “walked/the streets of a dying city/notepad in hand, reading
(believing) the press of its
past, which was printed
/on the bricks of buildings
that gave up the souls of
their street-level stores.”
Each line pulses sadness.
Revised version:
for Edwin Arlington Robinson
I never worked in a town
called Utopia, but I walked
the streets of a dying city,
notepad in hand, reading
(believing) the press of its
past, which was printed
on the bricks of its walls
that gave up the souls of
their street-level stores.
I bathed in local stillness,
lamented the lost lust, yet
never earning a cent.
(Laid off reporters sometimes
write for nothing, poets
for even less.) But you wrote
dirges at the Library of Congress,
compensated, eventually elevated
to knight template of pedestrian poets.