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The Limits of Art
Hearing that Pat, my friend of sixteen years,
had a massive tumor the size of a cantaloupe,
over the next two weeks I fought off tears
and tried to scrape together scraps of hope.
Her mother's death from cancer scared us both
as we rode the waves of helplessness and grief.
When her oncologist pronounced the growth
noncancerous, I was legless with relief.
Next day, a brilliant poet in his prime
(greater than Pat or I will ever be)
died of a stroke. His voice, lost for all time,
was passionate, unique. But now I see
where love of verse and love of persons end.
I'd say to Death, "Take Shakespeare. Leave my friend."
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[center]<table bgcolor=white cellpadding=25 border=0><tr><td>This sonnet is unapologetically subjective, direct in its defense of personal feeling and the choices made on the basis of such unabashed feeling. The language is homely, the descriptions highly visual and kinetic; I especially like "legless with relief," a sensation easy to understand but hard to convey. The title is perfect: yes, we all know those limits, whatever we may say in classrooms and on learned panels.
~Rhina
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