And now she's died, too... <br />and mankind's selfish howl rings out - <br />She should have died hereafter... <br />why didn't you tell us you were going to die...? <br /> <br />She left us with a poem to her lover; <br />their parting once almost as chewed-over <br />as the Ted and Sylvia show... <br />was it her fault, was it his, <br />did she ruin his talent? <br />Did he ruin hers? <br />Did she ruin her own? .. <br />and on and on <br /> <br />and then the obituaries the next day - <br />half a page of glorious, immortal things one never knew <br />about that small, dignified, humble lady <br />to whom I was introduced <br />with the wrong reference, <br />so that we shook hands weakly <br />over a void of silent incomprehension... <br /> <br />she who had entered the room <br />with my my my book in her hand... <br />and made me too feel immortal... <br />until we were introduced... <br /> <br />and now I wish there were some love-bank of futility <br />where we could say <br />put this uncounted love to her account - no, no name please <br /> <br />because we would have loved you more, we think, <br />if we had known <br />what we know now <br /> <br />it's pathetic isn't it<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-not-quite-knowing-kathleen-raine/
