the legacy poems

The legacy poems. From time to time that phrase, uttered by an interviewer a few years ago, comes back to me, just to remind me that after I am dead and gone and the ashes scattered and the paths I walked on overgrown or paved over, there will be something left of me.

And the question is "What?". Which of my works will be remembered? I wish I could say with some clarity which, but I have a few senses of this and what my legacy will be.

"The Panther Cycles" will be remembered, but like so many largish literary endeavours, it will be remembered as a whole and not for any one element. Indeed, I think it will become an abstraction in time, with those who know of it willing to debate whether I was wise or right in my feelings, my acting on those feelings and my writing of those feelings.

"glass roses", the poem. It will be remembered. It will be something spoken with a vague mysticism by those unfamiliar with its origins. And this is fine with me.

"The Unicorns". Perhaps a perfect work. Definitely something, as it has not only the integrity of the art form, but it has a resonance for everyone on the verge of, or just past the point of, the great leap from innocence to discovery.

"The Philosophy of Dreams". If I hadn't written it I would say "Damn, I wish I'd written that"...just too much a living thing on its own. It has a life, a soul, like I did not fashion it of word and whim, but it came through me from another place and time. Perhaps it did.

"The Patchwork Skirt of My Love". I have been attacked as an obscurantist for this one, but anyone who knows what passed between the hearts in this frame knows it was not a thing of pavement and Pontiacs, but brandywine and bare legs and fantastic times and places. Were that it had passed in more than hearts.

"Sacred Smile" will be remembered. A long time ago when I realized a woman I was with was not in love with me I was very sad, then she pointed out that it was my feelings that validated my actions, not hers. She was wise, in that way. So, even thought his piece was offering to another pretender, it is still earnest from my heart.

"Equinox" is a poem I get a lot of attention for, even though at the time it was more of a clearing of the mental throat than an attempt to make anything large and living. I think it, too, shall be among the living when I am dead.

"Bare feet on a wooden floor". Damn you, Kristina, for giving me that vision. You spoiled me. And, as this final piece of "The Goldenheart Cycles" has found its audience and pleased them, I am trapped to revisit that vision regularly.

"I rained poetry" is imperfect, no doubt. But it is the breath of me that will be left int he wind when I am gone. It expresses so perfectly my passions. Perhaps I should like my tombstone to read

William F. DeVault
I rained poetry

Yes, that would be nice. Anyone else have any suggestions? Poems that you think will still be read after I am dust?