[Poem]
XXVII
Simonides of Keos
inventor of the art of memory
said that painting is silent poetry
and poetry is painting that speaks.
He knew the true poet’s wish:
to make a poem whose images speak
to so many people that its words
live on forever.
But forever is much too long
a time. Just ask poor Sappho whose poems
cannot be found except in tiny scraps:
one stuck here, one stuck there,
one found wrapped around a mummy’s head,
recycled to preserve a politician’s memory.