Lettre de Louis XIII

Silent it lies behind glass, holding
his thoughts. No secret'ry wrote this
fragile survivor of three
centuries; ev'ry line
speaks of him. Each word
crossed out, each change
shows his thoughts:

For there lay his hand, ink smeared by his
touch; there his spidery scrawl's
crushed into the page; it tugs
at my heart, faint whisper
and relic, close, yet
too distant from
him, with whom
I would


Hobart Moment

A peaceful moment, all pale airy walls
green potted plants, white linen
soft sound of piano
and somewhere
a fountain, tinkling.

Hotel dining room, I'm almost alone
and thinking, as ever, of him -
counting syllables, scribbling lines
trying to capture his essence in words.

In the gallery above me I hear a man's voice
and how strange, how strange it is
that I sit here in this city,
near as far from his home
as I can ever be -
yet French is the language I hear.

poet's biography ->