Twelve Hundred Years Apart

Dancing back and forth, early
Winter, early in the day,

Between a new collection
By a young poet, a new

Translation of an ancient
From the far side of this shell,

The playful mind asks itself,
Well, what do these pieces have

In common makes them all poems?
Let’s forget about the lines

In various directions.
Call those local artifacts.

Is it the self-reference,
The way words conjure poets?

There’s that. Also the focus
On a small life’s small events.

The carefully arch language,
Intelligible, but stiff,

Suggesting laundered clothing,
Hinting it’s an occasion

To be in a poem, and words
Should conduct themselves as such.

These are present or absent
Traits in many famous poems,

Famed poetic traditions.
There’s another thing, along

With the smallness of focus
And the seriousness—pace.

The phrases are all rowing
Against the lip of the falls,

Moving forward, yes, about
To end abruptly, but slow,

Working to savor their own
Conception before they’re lost.