Another Poetry Poem by Daniel Brick

I
The lyric poet ponders:
There is another poetry
in which the clash of arms
stands for a life of sacrifice
and higher purpose. How that
clamor excites a sedentary soul
like mine! Men in those poems
give names to their swords, but
never call a slave by name.
They scoff at lesser men
whose delight is peace, restlessly
enduring the hours they cannot
pursue glory. And time is their
greatest enemy: it has planned
the perfect ambush of their hopes.
They smash each other's heads
in tournaments to silence the laughter
of time. They limp from their fields
of endeavor, angry at their bodies
which need rest and gentle nursing.

II
The epic poet remembers:
There is another poetry
I learned under Master Anselm's
gentle sway, and then abandoned.
He taught me the names of flowers
and streams, made me touch rough oak
and soft poplar, showed me how
dawnlight and dusk differ. He guided
my listening to larks and orioles
and to the sweet cadence of a young
woman's voice. As he lay dying,
completely composed, he whispered,
'All these things are yours only
if you share them with people
starved for beauty. Never hoard
beauty as your own. Do not fear
the passage of time, for it always
brings new gifts and laughs
when we are limp, overwhelmed with wonder.'