Ancient Lights
“The right of a building owner to the light received from and through his windows.” — Encyclopedia Brittanica
A Poem by Patty Seyburn
Common law from 1663. For 20 years, the landowner
owns that light, and you can’t build to obstruct it.
The theory: he (of course) acquired an easement,
a right to use part of your land for a specific purpose.
So you can own light, at least temporarily.
Americans don’t like this – much –
and the Fontainebleau Hotel lost its famous case
to the Eden Roc, both Art Deco splendors
in North Miami Beach, above my family’s pay-grade.
We stayed 150 blocks down Collins Avenue
at the Colonial Inn – snowbirds, 24 hours down
I-75 to Tampa from Detroit, more down
the Intercoastal highway. A kidney-shaped pool
with a 20-foot high-dive tapping into an ancient fear.
True ancient lights are probably stars or constellations
stitched into the sky like Peter Pan’s shadow, sewing
one of Wendy’s well-bred talents. If you could be
a fictional character, who would you be? Perhaps
her, brave enough to follow an adventure into
the ether, then brave enough to come home, guided by
the North Star, Polaris – though not too bright,
it maintains position in the firmament, owns space
the way you own a memory, which, though it
can ebb, cannot be given anyone else.
Patty Seyburn has previously published five collections of poems: Threshold Delivery (Finishing Line Press, 2019); Perfecta (What Books Press, Glass Table Collective, 2014); Hilarity, (New Issues Press, 2009), Mechanical Cluster (Ohio State University Press, 2002) and Diasporadic (Helicon Nine Editions, 1998). She earned a BS and an MS in Journalism from Northwestern University, an MFA in Poetry from University of California, Irvine, and a Ph.D. in Poetry and Literature from the University of Houston. She is a professor at California State University, Long Beach.