“Others abide our question….”
When Matthew Arnold had a crack at you,
All he could do was grab his puzzled head,
Gasp at a mystery without a clue,
And drone on till his final line fell dead.
You filled his heart with literary dread
Softened by customary admiration.
I hope that you fill mine with awe instead
And with the urge for open contemplation.
Your simple sonnets ring with complication.
Your plays are traps – but traps that liberate.
I know that I have need of liberation—
And turn to you. Perhaps it’s too damn late
To understand what must be understood.
Still, I know this: you’re good. You’re really good.