Many years ago I used to attend meetings of poets.
At one such meeting I heard a Russian called Yuri tell a story. He insisted the lights be turned out and he then lit a candle. He really created a mood and then told his tale. It struck me that so much of our history and culture came from stories and storytellers.
We used to meet every couple of weeks and he told us his birthday was on the date of the next meeting. As a gift to him I wrote this poem.
The Storyteller
I saw a man the other day
who filled my heart with fascination,
The machination of time and event
saw a vision rent with pathos.
The gloss of mystery shimmered
as imagination glimmered
in the half light of fantasy.
His candle flickered as he told
the tale of deeds so bold
and yet behold the devils
demons and elves as we struggle
to hold onto ourselves.
His voice gripped our minds
a kind of half light of ideas
and fears of what we know,
a show of courage, the scourge
of evil lightened by whimsy.
A flimsy gossamer of wonder
he plundered tales tall and true
to entertain me and you.
We should love this man
dead pan teller of tales
of life, love, death and fury
None compare at all with Yuri.
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