Denise Levertov

Poet Power

Riding by taxi, Brooklyn to Queens,
a grey spring day. The Hispanic driver,
when I ask, ‘Es usted Mexicano?’ tells me
No, he’s an exile from Uruguay. And I say,
‘The only Uruguayan I’ve met
was a writer—maybe
you know his name?—
                                     Mario Benedetti?’
       And he takes both hands 
off the wheel and swings round,
glittering with joy: ‘Benedetti!
Mario Benedetti!’
                             There are
hallelujahs in his voice—
we execute a perfect
figure 8 on the shining highway,
and rise aloft, high above traffic, flying
all the rest of the way in the blue sky, azul, azul!