The Mentor

By John Clifford

Just today, the gifted voice

of a man two centuries old licked

my senses with a silvery tongue.

Was it a ghost?

Not a ghost, my boy. A book!

I’m reading lines set down by

an author long in his grave,

and they speak to me in the

self-same voice the man spoke

in his prime. Do you understand?

I’m not sure.

Follow me, son:

The essence of his thought

moved from that great author

to live again in my own mind.

Every poet and philosopher

wrote for an unknown reader.

And it’s ME –

the one who’s reading him.

The geniuses of the world toiled

by their lamps, in the hope

of being read by the likes of me.

Or the likes of me?

Yes, Jackie boy,

you and I.

We are their resurrection!