Meeting Ginsberg
by Catherine Taylor
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I should have shook the hand of greatness
when I had the chance when he stood before
me frail bodied septuagenarian dark suit
cashmere scarf reflecting silver grizzled facial
hair a few feet away he stood pursing his thick
ruby lips spectacles hanging low on his rounded
ethnic elderly nose and his eyes glowed and shown
on all he loved and he seemed to love the whole
human race and I could have stepped up and reached
out and he would have taken my inexperienced hand
in his callused one and squeezed
how well I know where those hands have been
how many young men they have embraced in
the name of love lust knowledge in the search for
poetry
those hands that embraced kerrouac and ferrlinghetti
thich nhat hanh and mother theresa that held back
protesters in chicago prayed for peace in dc that
caressed his squeezebox like they caressed my fingers
he would have looked me in the eye as an equal a poet
not unlike him a kindred spirit who reels and rails
against the horrors of the world and prays openly for
goodness peace equality a fellow lover touching him
searching for the subatomic certainty of truth of
poetry
but instead I stood back watching
his words and music his gentle voice still
echoing in my mind watching wondering how
one so godlike got to be so old and
mortal
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