for the poet, William Butler Yeats
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break the glass on the household pavements
before the hearth or in the dark
perhaps some inner angel or not told them
anyway they did.
all memory of him
eager to erase
that they might win the race themselves
if he were eliminated; wishing themselves good luck.
you have not won what you thought to have won
i tell you in this poem you will mostly likely not read
still he walks among the reeds and ponders fate
and the language poetical, Ireland dreaming through him
and fairytale, the mysterious Rose, the wherewithal of Songs
the aftermath of quarrels and
will not shut up his music in a case
because it suits you, aftercomers.
Yeats still lives
you cannot take him into captivity
you cannot make his angel fly from his books
and become obscure though he has died.
though you have, possibly,
in your own ways, tried.
mary angela douglas 4 august 2023
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