Letter to an American Poet

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I have waited for the prodigal son to arrive,
looking across the line of hills each day,
hoping to see his cherub-like face again—
but they say he is still in a distant land,
throwing away his inheritance,
living a debauched life.

For he has no real needs, they say.
Not like the Russians
Pasternak, Ginsburg, Yevtushenko,
men of needs and wants
who cherish their inheritance
and are called sons.

I am waiting for you to come back to life again,
waiting to take the fattened young bull
out of his pen to celebrate your return.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

3 responses to “Letter to an American Poet

  1. Let us dream a better future into life
    That life that lies inert unenvisioned
    Let us breathe it into manifestation
    In words and thus in time into flesh

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