A Poem
of Thanks to Walter Zylinski
And did you know, dear Argentinian,
That Borges had in him some English blood?
His grandmother, his father's mother, came
From Staffordshire. He knew this heritage.
Of Shakespeare and John Milton he would write
And Anglo-Saxon language praise in terms
Of wonder, singing of "la música
Verbal de Inglaterra", heard the bells
Of God that sanctify the dawning fields
Of England and recalled the rose's scent.
I have encapsulated many lines
Of his on Christ, Daybreak, Eternity,
On Furniture and God and Buenos Aires,
City of which you taught me all I know.
I praise her own música corporal
And you're the book where I have read of her.
How is it that her pulse is in my blood?
But that we're of one seed, brother to brother,
Each with Eternity writ in our hearts
Which we interpret through our hands and feet.
The poet writes in praise of Him whose hands
Their message of forgiveness swept on sand
And were impaled upon a murderous cross.
The dancer steps in praise of Him whose feet
Paddled in Jordan's flow for baptism.
To sate the hungry edge of appetite,
I read this book throughout the weary night.
In just two days, I'm almost half way through it.
Its prettily trimmed pages I have kept
Pristine in its hardcover jacket, without
The usual underlines and markings, splotches
And stains of food, which is the usual fate
Of all my paperbacks. I reverence
The gift as I have reverenced the giver.
Of various quality are the translations.
Robert Fitzgerald has interpreted
With love, and W.S. Merwin renders,
It seems to me, who know so little Spanish,
Most faithfully. But how can I forgive
False-blooded A.S.T., who would not rhyme
Even translated sonnets? Borges too
Is patchy and a dismal pessimist
At times, and worse, condemns the innocent reader.
He's overfond of death and overstuffed
With patios, tigers, swords. After a while,
Like some wines, sweet at the first sip, that sour
With usage, so the flavor of his words
Converts to staleness and rot. He worsens
With age in blithely slandering the soul.
Shall I suggest that Argentina stick
To tango, and leave poetry for the Brits?
In either case, this book I shall judge by
The cover, for it is a sign of love
That sets a countenance on Borges' sins.
I put the volume back up on the shelf
Unfinished, not a poet's tribute but
A trophy of the kindness of my friend.
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