A poem is a holy glass - put
undiluted thought in it, only that -
in whose blinking drop images gleam
like the gold bubbles in an old, shone wine.
Tip in flowers - flowers that the endless, punching
chill of the world has bruised -
quiet memories of things that will never come back
and dewlicked roses.
Thus our brutish existence is made sweet -
as if with an unfathomable essence -
What a wonderful view of poetry. I don't know whether the poetry I have been writing on this residency has helped make a brutish existence sweet or, at least, more bearable for having been heard. I am tolerating the position that comes to many a counsellor or therapist, that position of not knowing. Of feeling intensely connected with someone and their struggle and then having to accept that we can do little more than wait.