Reticence

by C.A. McCoy

To R.H., il miglior fabbro nuovo

I could have written much, much more,

If I hadn't been so taken with your

own seemingly effortless creations, sifting each

word from a life spent plumbing the

significance of one phoneme after another,

combining your experience as a master craftsman,

with the exploits of a life lived with what some

might term the "contingencies of secondary causes",

while those who know you well, might merely

term the "unbridled willfulness" of a Berkeley boy

who never quite escaped the time warp of the

the sixties, with all its self-indulgence, rebellion,

and erudition in just the right measure.

I could have written much, much more

had I simply taken you at your word

when you voiced praise for my translations and

other works, but instead, I chose to stop,

to suspend my own efforts and watch you

hold sway over your fawning followers for

four more decades before settling down to

begin the hard work of writing, one lonely

word at a time, in an effort at full disclosure

before leaving this imperfect world. Now,

I'd like you to know that you had a great

part in who I have become, even if we

haven't spoken or seen each other in years.

I could have written much, much more,

about screeching steel wheels crisscrossing

kilometers and kilometers of open spaces, near frozen

streams where legions of geese had already

flown away to more congenial climes,

while I made my way down east from the Pacific forests all the way

through the Rockies and over the expansive plains,

steadily heading towards the windswept island they disparaged,

spinning yarns about those who remained

there, on that rocky isle, eeking out their livelihood from

the seas which surround it, and me making my way as far as

Gander, to hop a flight to Rome, flying on nothing

more than a song, and hoping to find adventure.

I could have written much, much more,

but I, like those before me, felt too much

the frailty of pencils and other writing

Implements, and instead, chose to sing words to

my muse until they could no longer be contained.

It is only now, that my longing for home has outlived the denial of my calling

and I ache inside, knowing I should have returned before this,

while each word finally fits firmly in place,

like a hand scribed spruce lock-notch, on a house not made with hands,

but with visions and dreams of a life hewn of fear;

fear of success and of those who have neither the ears

nor the desire to seek the sublime in the old sense.

I could have written much, much more.