POET copyright 12-2-09

When I met him at that art gallery reception, the encounter was like the song, across a crowded room. He made his way over to me and said: You’re very handsome. May I see you again? I looked at him with his dark swarthy face, chiseled profile and strong teeth, a Turk I thought or maybe Greek. I smiled and said that would be quite possible. Do you like music? Yes, I do, he said, his eyes lighting up at the question. Well, next Monday I shall attend a musical soiree where we also read poetry. Your own poetry he asked. Sometimes I said, or maybe Homer, Ovid, maybe Ashberry the American. Whatever. Does that interest you? Yes, he said, it does indeed. What music do you like he asked? Light rock, the Beatles, a good tune, Latin tangos but I prefer music for the harp. The harp he exclaimed. Yes, I smiled, I play the harp. He looked at me: this is the first time I have met an angel. What a great country this is.
He did come to the soiree and astonished me by reading his own poetry translated from the Greek. He was a wonderful man and we were companions for two years until he was killed in a car crash. I treasure the translation he gave me of Constantin Cavafy’s poems. When I read them I think of him.