Sketchbooks Poem by Roy Blokker

I see closets of sketchbooks.
I think about my uncle's art,
Hung on walls, lain in drawers
At his flat in the Overvecht,
Tended by my aunt after he passed.
Then she had a stroke, was taken off
To hospital, the flat was gone.
I hope someone rescued his drawings,
Not just garbage or recycling,
But a life's passion set on canvas
Shared by so few sets of eyes.
I wonder if someone will save me
If I stroke out, or when I die,
Or when my bride can do no more
To hold me, not just scraps of paper
Covered in squiggly lines
To be forgotten along with my
Face and name.
I wonder at all the masterpieces
Destroyed by fire, bombs and temper.
At the van Goghs who kept both ears.
At the hitchhikers who stayed home.
Piles and piles, thrown into the fire,
Our krystalnachts forever lost,
Forgotten, unnamed, unread,
Unseen. I wonder if they matter,
The Beethovens left in the country,
The da Vincis trapped in birthrights,
The down home wits down home still.
I wonder what survives us anyway,
A handful, best of the best, lucky,
Blessed with both ambition and talent,
Dancing on the stage, the rest of us watching,
Taking notes.