R. H. W. DILLARD  |  From What Is Owed the Dead

Exile

Loneliness, you, Ovid, on the Black Sea, Pontus
Euxinus, year 8, exiled, imperial claim, for love,
Ars Amatoris, Nelly, 1940, safe in Sweden
From Nazis but not from die Blicke, glances,
Der Toten, of millions going up in black
Smoke, Joseph, 1972, you, safe, too, in U. S. A.,
“persona non grata in terra incognita,” behind
All of you, landscape, pines, lindens, aspens,
Those faces, most of all, language, “vix
Subeunt ipsi verba Latina mihi,” old words
“Rusty and stiff,” intoned (02/76) Russian
Verse, few understanding, sleeves rolled up,
Cigarette poised so carefully on filter beside,
Joseph, hand on shoulder, to shy student poet,
New room, new world, , emptiness,
“Don’t be,” exile’s best advice, “nervous.”  

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