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While trying to decide what to post here in Sean’s absence, I started reading through the list of posts on his computer in draft form. I found the following truly stellar work of poetry and thought I, living as I do with him, would be best suited to annotate it for you.

1 I was the shadow of the moon in rain
  falling gently against the windowpane
  I was the running of rivulets—and I
  Drained on, fell on, in the moonpooled light.
5 And from the inside, too, I’d duplicate
  Myself, my pen, my post-its on a crate;
  Penetrating the night, I’d write reviews
  of events sporting and old emcee blues
  until at last I find my hidden muse

Lines 1-4: I was the shadow of the moon in rain, etc.

The image in the opening lines evidently refers to rain running in miniature rivers down a plate of glass. During the last six months of his life, I have been privileged enough to note this phenomenon on numerous occasions on Sean’s very window, since his window is visible from mine. Through this very window I have sometimes glimpsed him writing until the wee small hours of the morning, perchance dozing on the keyboard between drafts.

Line 6: post-its on a crate

An allusion to his creative process, no doubt. To those of you who have long known the Sean Keane, as I have, it will not come as a surprise that he composes most of his highly comedic prose on post-it notes he carried in his wallet or pockets. Lately, he told me, he has made the switch to small wire-bound notebooks, and once while strolling genially to the corner store for his favorite spirits, he swore to me he would never go back. The crate is a reference to his near complete dearth of storage for said post-its. I said once while lingering in his doorway that I had some extra filing crates he might use, and he gladly accepted. His mention of them here is clearly a reference to the great depth of our friendship. Also in his room, Sean has several other exciting articles of furniture. There are, of course, the two bookshelves, filled with only the most exceptional works of the 20th century. In the corner stands a dresser filled with his most personal effects, a sanctuary one might never violate. There is also a rather large, soft bed, covered completely in flannel and smelling of the freshest spring day (Oh to breathe such a scent daily!). In the corner is his most inviolate refuge: the writing desk. Sitting here it is apparent what spark of brilliance must ignite all his writing, inspiration from the surroundings being deficient as it is.

Line 9: until at last I find my hidden muse

Clearly the use of the word ‘hidden’ here is for poetic meter. It could also be to create a sense of mystery and drama, however he cannot truly have found any difficulty in finding his muse. He has long known my willingness to go to any length to animate his gift. What greater pleasure could there be than to arouse the sleeping giant of his talent. When he returns, he shall not be disappointed by my performance in stewardship of this blog. Indeed, he shall return to find me here—admiring, protecting, and waiting.


the use of the word 'hidden' must also be considered a misnomer due to the fact that your door is precisely 9 feet away from his. 9!

(i really hope it is 9, because that would be beautiful.)

christine, oh my god, i love the shit out of you right now. so much do i love you, so much.

I'm glad you liked it. I miss you guys. Lots and lots.

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About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Sean Keane published on April 2, 2006 10:00 PM.

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