nad sylvan – the fisherman lyrics
although i can see him still
the freckled man who goes
to a gray place on a hill
in gray connemara clothes
at dawn to cast his flies
it’s long since i began
to call up to the eyes
this wise and simple man
all day i’d looked in the face
what i had hoped it would be
to write for my own race
and the reality:
the living men that i hate
the dead man that i loved
the craven man in his seat
the insolent unreproved
and no knave brought to book
who has won a drunken cheer
the witty man and his joke
aimed at thе commonest ear
the clеver man who cries
the catch cries of the clown
the beating down of the wise
and great art beaten down
maybe a twelve+month since
suddenly i began
in scorn of this audience
imagining a man
and his sun+freckled face
and gray connemara cloth
climbing up to a place
where stone is dark with froth
and the down turn of his wrist
when the flies drop in the stream
a man who does not exist
a man who is but a dream
and cried, “before i am old
i shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
and passionate as the dawn”
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