Sunday, June 22, 2014


Your graven funeral
on my hands
at the Church
of the Advent
on Beacon Hill,
Boston, 1977
was an event
for your wives, fans
and friend of friends
well known critics
your biographers,
official ones
and non official,
those from the Big Apple
South End and the Fens
were there in the rain,
this poet in the back pew
wishing to hear again
the lectures and readings
my mind starts to review,
as we were with you
among the Arlington dead
marching to the Pentagon
for an end to war
with a feeling of Armageddon,
here not believing
you are gone
and still translated.

of Armageddon
at Boston U.
shaking off the sweat
from your high brow,
here were unrecorded
new poets alive now,
knowing Lowell is dead,
but not his confessional
historical verse
which gives meaning
to our universe,
as you are translated.

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