FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER
(for Shamus Frazer)
That day when you left,
Taking for the safe keeping of us,
My figure from Bali ,
Smooth, beckoning goddess
Urged to serenity by the lotus she stood on,
You too were poised in the brittle afternoon ...
That day of incense I have kept to this.
You died recently. They say you died.
But no matter.
Image and breath perist,
Grow as I grow, would not suffer the mind's quip.
Your beard, dubious, smelling of cheese and beer,
Affectionate, still presides; your voice pursues,`
Sweet or harsh, but ever itself.
Many sit in their rooms, remembering how
You took us through Christabel, Sohrab and Rustum,
Death's Jest-Book, The Raven,
Brought new worlds to meet our own.
You lived -- beautiful, precarious
Feeding us irrevocably on your self
While other gods shed their skin, withdrew,
Taking their notes with them.
But teacher and friend, white man,
What are they doing to you,
They, who come after?
Smaller, paler, full of themselves,
Suave, sideburned, tousled? Setting up trade
In principles, freedoms, intellectual honesties?
They are eloquent,
These revivers of cliches, these late comers,
Who strike a neat phrase, write letters to the press.
Old Shamus,
Your image and breath slip,
You are dying now.
When I need you most to live.
Edwin Thumboo
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