That poem in previous post was written 36 years ago. It was part of a group of poems which won the Charles Philbrick Memorial Award for 1970 at Brown University. (I think that award was only given once.) The result was a chapbook, titled Where the Skies Are Not Cloudy All Day (not my title : it was chosen by the editors, who published the poems along with an award-winning story, by James Morgan).

This chapbook is currently held by 5 libraries in the U.S., and one in Israel. (How my ancient text made its way over there, I don't know!)

& 36 years later, I'm still here (not counting some sidetrack years in community work & musical errancy).

Like Elijah in front of the whispering cave, I'm somebody who was transfixed by poetry, rooted to the spot. From the days of the Shakespeare Thing. "The lion sleeps on its paws. / It can kill a man."

It's like this (another old poem):

                from a cave

Such a small voice,
I would not stop to hear;
the sun was going down, and
there were no houses near.

Such a strange voice,
whispering out of the ground -
familiar, though it seemed
unearthly, utterly profound.

Such a sweet voice,
twining my cavern ear;
a vine for water jars, when
all the wedding guests are here.

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