Sunday, March 26, 2017


I was a Classics major in college. My senior thesis was comparing two translations of Homer's Odyssey. Lattimore and Fitzgerald. I chose Fitzgerald. His rosy-fingered dawn has always stayed with me. This is Rose Sunday, the Sunday those churches with money for pink vestments wear rose and maybe add a flower or two around the altar.

Forty years ago
I wrote a thesis
On the rosy-fingered dawn,
Which translation
Said it best:
The literal
The poetic.
I chose poetry.
I continue to choose poetry
Nigh on
Forty years later.
The thesis is gone.
The poetry remains
Rosy-fingered dawn
I hold up my hands
Picture the sun
A poem
In itself.

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