April 13th - Happy Birthday

In all the years that have ever been,
of all the births that day thirteen
of the fourth month has ever seen,
from Thomas Jefferson, or Guy Fawkes,
to Seamus Heaney and Reverend Al Green,
from Samuel Beckett, or Georg Lukács,
to Kasparov and any in between,
none will be so glorified,
nor honorable nor true,
no year will be as sanctified
as nineteen-hundred-thirty-three,
the year which gave forth you.

And it is true that there were celebrations
across the oceans, throughout nations
on this early April day,
But all those monumental 'ccasions
were merely cheerful resignations
to the splendor that some say
Erupted forth as much elation
to the self-same situation
which you gathered there to celebrate.

Things have come, and things have gone:
In '64, America smiled as Poitier won
Best Actor; Much earlier on,
in the times of canonizing saints,
Spain and Portugal, anon, anon,
in 5-8-5, saw Hermenegild placed upon
the chopping block. They say he won
the Visigoths from Arianistic taints.
And Tiger, Tiger, burning bronze
In the fields of the Masters won
back in 1997 - I was there, among
the family next to you, and no complaints
of turning 64 this time around.

Some say this number has a magic,
which has ever been oft weaved.
Others who know of things more tragic
Know that we are left bereaved.
Today you might have turned seventy-six,
which, in its parts, six and seven,
thirteen makes; alas, no math can fix
that much divides you and I - Heaven
for you, Earth for me, air and angels between.
It stands for the independence of our nation,
the number of letters in those nineteen
words that make the first revelation
of the Qur'an; to ancient Hebrew men
it was how many heleq a rega make.
Yesterday was the Resurrection,
April 12 (76 multiples of that stake
their claim in the Bible), but of those
men who were revived, as Jesus chose,
you stayed dead. Yesterday, no good men rose.

I was ten when Tiger won the Masters.
You were ten when Thomas had 200 years.
I like to think that you, just 76,
and him, with his two-hundred sixty-six,
are palling around up there,
enjoying the few, sitting in chairs,
a pipe and a pint between you two,
chatting of lives so full that you knew
the lives you left behind would be
as empty as my heart, shattered, be.