Broadway shifts, stars step: Broadway shifts, stars step in, names that once lit screens now flicker on marquees.
The price climbs, but the stage still hums— if you can, go!
Faith does not waver, though: Faith does not waver, though I have. Still, it stands— steady beneath hesitation, holding me until belief feels like breathing.
This is an excellent poem,: This is an excellent poem, and the final stanza is very, very accurate. Your body contains atoms that were ejaculated into deep space after being fused in their cores, so there is an innate sense, in your flesh, of being part of the Cosmos. I believe Poets have the task of explaining the Cosmos to itself; and this poem definitely participates in that process.
Your most valued words come: Your most valued words come at a very good time as a dark season has sojoirned upon the arid poetic land. Many, many thanks
(Yes, I am trying another: (Yes, I am trying another one.) Your verbal dexterity and skill as a tale-weaver really, really, really commands my respect. This one is a centerpiece of your entire Poetry. It is textbook perfect and deserves to be in every quotation book. It reminds me of a remark Ezra Pound wrote in a letter after T. S, Eliot published The Waste Land in 1922: "About enough to make the rest of us close up shop." That remark definitely applies to this poem, also!
Wouldn't have it any other: Wouldn't have it any other way. And though we came in via CVG (2016) we drove around a lot and there is that thrill in knowing that we would've been motoring on part of that beltway built by your Granddad! Our self-guided tour of the Wrigh Brothers aviation history would have put us in that vicinity. At least that's what I am lead to believe
This comment may be a bit: This comment may be a bit verbose. That first stanza really touched my soul deeply. My grandfather worked for our County Engineer (who hired him when the Crash of 1929 caused the loss of his car repair shop). My grandfather built small concrete bridges over rural creeks and culverts. My father also became worked for the County Engineer, and, as a surveyor, he was considered by his peers and crew members as an artist on the transit. They said he turned an angle once, and once only; and the angle was always correct. The belt (three lanes in each direction) that surrounds our city was surveyed by my father when it was just a set of unconnected roads. I always feel safest when riding on this road. His design for a dedicated highway exit for our international airport, an exit that branched off the major East-West interstate highway, was accepted by the state, constructed, and now prevents the many fender-benders that used to happen in the small town next to the airport. During the summers of 1975, 1976, and 1977, I had the privilege (which I did not appreciate fully back then) of working with some of his survey crewmen (he had been promoted to traffic control at that time). I also did surveys on the rural roads near my grandfather's bridges. My father was very "macho," but he acknowlegded that he knew my friendship with BlueShift had become Love, and he did not condemn me for it. The first stanza of your poem brought all that back to me.
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