Has music gone from poetry?

and, calling a carrier-pigeon from his loft,sent it as a white dove to his belovedIt was a long flightand by the time his beloved read the poemunder the lamplight in her roomits meaning had changed for herwith the course of time and the human heartIf the pigeon, midway on its flight,had rested in our loftto…

lingering on every no-un, ad-jective and ad-verbas if they are simultaneously ancient jewelsthat you’re touching, showing to us; and yetnew jewels you’re yourself in wonder at…clothing e-ach w-ord with the sc-entof peat fire, soda bread, a glowing hearth;a child asleep there in the corner;a woman who’s grown rich, timeless in your love;outside the cry of…

eccentricity which the English do so wellwent beyond the bounds that others set…I only write obituaries, dear Margaret,when asked; somehow the others can be messy;but now of course, I wish I’d known enough…forhow do we know, when we’re so busyenjoying their company, their joyously,modestly eccentric company—no showing off –that we’ll so miss them, when they’re…

for if they read the heavens’ portents so well,what need of proof; of presence at the scene?And then, to go without due retinuethrough unforgiving deserts, foreign towns,and forests hiding thieves – and wild beasts too?And carrying rich gifts? And worse – their crowns!And so, to risk three kingdoms, not just one?And this, for sake of…

that, in impatient youth, ambition burnedto have the answers to all things defined –but not, I haste to add, from teacher’s notes,but from experiences uniquely mine:a random, fun-filled quest to find the goalwhich, when defined, would ease the ceaseless strife;yet now, the mind’s so sceptical, and allthat passed for thought, just mental indigestion;the quest, forgotten,…

the question asked, the answer may, most like, come freshly saidout of a space that’s new alike to teacher and to taught;your question is today – how factual should I leavemy verse, or should I seek to ‘colour’ it with metaphor? …this image comes to mind: ‘old master’ in his studio,famed painter of Madonnas with…

a slender book ofmaybe a dozen poemsgently human, likea summer seashorelapping at the heart,leaving washed bright pebbleslike jewelsfor each five yearsa quiet poet, bright-eyedwith an inner smilehas walked around unnoticedwaiting for a poem to come to himand yetleaving the air around him cleanlike a walk by the sea-shorecleansed by the listening sightof a world full…

where the ‘front desk’ is a healthy walk awayfrom the discreetly supervised, invisibly recorded entrance,there they are lined up waiting for their transport –the airline crewimmaculate, fresh, custom-fit navy uniforms,neat to ad-sleek hair, those crisp, jaunty neck-scarveswhich are forever 1950s and band-box-fresh New World,they are lined up like some Sultan’s Weekly Choicefor your inspection. Air…

that men bring back who’ve seen that creature plain.But since the unicorn grazes in all our minds and hearts,each has his image. Poets love to write of that creatureas they picture it; but what of those who met it plainin forest glade, upon the hills, or white amidst the waves?It’s said that, then, some poets…

well, OK, but how do we knowwhether that decision’s rightor wrong?…er…

or was it the other way around?mousey but together,neatly dressedin an understated waylike her Paris dressmaker motherwho’d fled ViennaThough in fact she was a brilliant bluestocking lecturerand trenchant criticwho’d embarked, on the side,on novel writingHowever the Britishdon’t like people who do two things welland the critics – mostly men –panned her rottenwhile the women reserved…