She was a poet living on Manhattan’s Upper West Side on the fifth floor of a large pre-war building. Friends said she was stunning and turned many a head – those of men and women alike. And though in her later years her pace slowed, her posture remained that of the model she could have been. She was said to be a woman you would never forget whether you ever knew her name or not.

I noticed the lights in her window at night when I lived on West 72nd Street near the corner of Columbus Avenue. Her writing hours were mid evening to early morning. I liked the soft curtains and yellow light in her windows. They were dependable and certain in the early 1970s in a city worn at the edges, unkempt and flirting with bankruptcy, as homelessness, violence, and drugs took root in neighborhoods and parks.

Then came the day when her windows were dark, the soft drapes opened. After the third day I was sure she was gone. The woman with whom Bernstein, Bogart, and Bacall would chat in public and embrace so warmly would not return.

A year later it was rumored that shortly after she took a flat in London a book of poetry was published which had delighted and enlivened literary groups. For years thereafter she would be seen sitting among audiences wherever verses from Time and Memory were being read. Who was she? Was she the beautiful woman from Manhattan’s Upper West Side? Was she the one whose softly lit windows brightened a neighborhood? Was she the poet whose words were capturing the hearts of academicians and common folk alike?

None of the copies of Time and Memory were ever signed. No autograph parties were given. The author never gave a public reading. Was she the beloved, but unknown poet? Was she the author touted as Anonymous?

Was it she?