I took Coleman, our English house guest, to Jerusalem. He will continue his journey. That may be the last time that we will see him on this trip, or ever. He left a few of his poems, scribbled from memory on notepaper. (He never publishes, but has occasionally given recitations.) Here are three of his poems:
Inside the Trojan Horse
This day was the sky clear of sails
gleamed there no tents in the morning sun.
our scattered camp fires were the sole remains
Alert, we heard the waking horn
sounds of wonder, the singing and the dance.
Now we few, we silent few
for silence is the very work we do
by strategem, have burst through the stubborn walls
that not courage nor honesty could batter down.
Oh cunning artificer
from the living wood to hew
this subtle engine finally to gain their curious hearts
We are the last chance, the risk not covered
the midnight knock
We are the oiled key in the Trojan lock.
The Undying Swans, a legend
It seemed they lived and moved in kingly state
Beings as though upon some royal errand bent
without beginnings, and had no end.
That legend now is ended
not though, in secret chambers of the mind
but, in solid and apparent air
for rays in flight, on distant purpose
thrown from off the sun
their journey being done
now find, quite out of reach
their target long intended
for or [or on] the beach
the swan has died.
Their eyes wear scales
that lamp now fails
on which that light, had bended.
Dwelling among Antiques
Some stories are more easily told in places
where the light streams on upturned faces
Here where shadows dwell
where continuity has cast so strong a spell
where quite dismissed from human kind
in the attentive air
the traces of a plot unfold
Whose secret none may hold nor share.