R E L E G A T I O N

In response to Gerald Stern’s “The Same Moon Above Us”
by Emily Crowe


I see a broken man in tattered rags,
hunched over a rusted subway steam grate.
I see him, lost, deep in thought,
thinking of Ovid and Rome,
and writing unsent letters, requests, and pleas.
What are his wages now?
The banished lover, exiled genius,
his hands are filthy and
his face bears its wounds—with pride.


The curtain rises on a new sad act
and another man enters the scene,
watching, admiring this outcast.
An observer, his curiosity drives him as well.
Our Ovid, why is he there?
Does this Ovid know what he does; does he care?
Or will he soon lose all insight and reason?
Will he search only for a little heat;
warmth for his fingers,
warmth for his toes,
and warmth for his tired, wounded heart?


I watch this careful observer
and I read the thoughts he thinks.
He thinks our Ovid must have learned, adapted.
He must have lifted his face from the notebook,
gazed at the sky, and stripped himself of worldly goods;
he had to learn and he had to find the sorrow.
The observer imagines a history for this man.
He wonders at the emotions and searches for meaning.
He wonders if the poet misses his youth,
his life of plenty, and his love—the happiness of yesteryear.


He’s dying inside, my observer tells me.
He wishes he could live his life without this pain.
He wishes to fly again, on the wings of his words,
and carry his dying messages
home again to Caesar. He hopes to find his muse again—
waiting in all her glory and love—
but she is gone,
and he is left behind to mourn the loss,
the banished, abandoned lover.


In this watchful moment, my observer understands
and passes his knowledge on to me.
Ovid, the exiled, the poet, he finds the truth
and his sorrow makes it safe;
his sorrow breathes life into art—
art created in his own image.


This is the glorious moment, the final battle,
and our new victory is at hand.
Write your pleas, Great Ovid, banished by Caesar.
The battle will soon be won and the exile soon rescinded
as your death and legacy live on.
He is glory in sorrow, a walking poem,
an ode to despair. His limitless grief turns to beauty—
his saving grief is saving grace.


He was first. No one came before him.
“We have him to thank,” says my observer,
“He has found the truth and ripped it from his soul—
immortalized it on the page. He has thrown it down in the street,
buried himself in it, and given birth to art.”
My observer turns heavenward and thanks those
who came before. He is a poet too;
his thoughts have made that clear.
He cries now, grateful for this man,
our dirty, dying poet.
He compares himself to our Ovid,
finds he cannot measure up to such great sorrow,
and borrows some for his own use.
He will not need it long,
but it will serve its purpose.


“I’ll leave him now,” my observer says.
“I need him on the streets. I need his sorrow.”
“As do I,” I whisper.
The observer gently walks away.
He’s off to a new place and he’s already writing.
The sky turns soft, and the lights turn bright
as the pale moon rises.
The fires rage far across the seas but
fires rage here as well.


The observer shifts under his borrowed burden,
and smiles because it will serve him well—
for a time. He says he must be the last poet on the streets,
underappreciated, neglected.
That will all end soon enough;
silence and peace await.
And our poet, our Ovid, pauses in his dreams,
pulls his mantle of sorrow high over his weary head,
and loans another poet another muse.
As the same moon rises above us all, we whisper,
“May the bones of Naso lie gently.”