[1225] To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence

Guest poem submitted by a poster who wishes to remain anonymous

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet, archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along

I care not if you bridge the seas
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue:
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

      -- James Elroy Flecker

Note: Maeonides is Homer.

Have always enjoyed poetry, and I came across this poem first almost 40 years
ago and was struck by what it said to me about how poets could communicate
ideas across space and time; and also about loneliness. It was reinforced in
1995 when I first discovered email and the web - the last paragraph in
particular being particularly poignant, especially since my elder daughter
was about to leave to study overseas. Now that both daughters have left home
and are each half a world away I am even more grateful for the Web.

[Martin adds]

Flecker is a rich and popular source of titles; today's poem provided Clarke
with his "The Cruel Sky", and permeates the following piece:

http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/sciencefiction/story/0,6000,415880,00.html


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From: monica bathija <irmonica@>

The Flecker poem just brought to mind this one by Rabindranath Tagore
.. urging you to catch a whiff of flowers that once bloomed a hundred
years ago..

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot
send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single
streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and I look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished
flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you
feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad
voice across an hundred years.

The poem is from his collection The Gardener.

====Trust in your Dreams
their night gleams know
what seems is true.