One of my favourite poetry anthologies for dipping into is The song atlas, a book of world poetry edited by John Gallas and published by Carcanet (2002). This offering comes from Columbian poet, José Asuncion Silva (who lived in the second half of the 19th century):
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.