Centuries before Sappho
Praised Men and Women
Pre-echoes of that verse, ancient Greek
In poetry, go back so far that lost
Verbs, Indo-European ones, can almost squeak
Through Sappho. It is like they are embossed
Behind her blond papyrus. Her inked lines
Were written clearly on millennial
Octobers’ vine fronds, leaving only mines
For us to dig for the perennial
Resplendence harking back to fire-lit caves.
Our poetry today derives from lungs
That sang out grief and verses over graves
Beyond our thoughts in atavistic tongues.
We are the heirs and heiresses of breath
And syllables we use to battle death.