On my walk today I came upon
this narrow park along the street,
wild trees and shrubs pressing in
from a creek on the other side.
At intervals on the brick-lined walk-way
stand waist-high bronze pedestals,
an open book atop each one
glassed over for protection
depicting the life
of my nation’s greatest dramatist,
who created his finest work
a few miles from this spot.
Suddenly, from out of the great
suburbanization of America,
there came a sense of place—
all spots not interchangeable—
of ground hallowed, in this land
that so few saints have trod,
by O”Neill’s bleeding
steps toward truth.
With gratitude I wiped
the dust from those glass pages,
and felt his struggles
validate my own.
Very touching. To be remembered is to live again...Beautiful tribute. Warm regards, Sandra
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
IMO, he is the pinnacle American playwright. THE ICEMAN COMETH - MOURNING BECOMES ELEKTRA, and - LONG DAYS JOURNEY INTO NIGHT - are among my favorite things to read when I am feeling blue...the language of the characters...and even the stage directions are absolutely beautiful. Thanks for sharing this with us, Max. Ben and I almost stopped by the O'Neill home about a month and a half ago...but there was just soooo much to do....next time.