silent; by a pool of lamplight lit;
now still in reading, or now drawn to write;
inaudible, the music of his mind,
invisible, that dazzling light, his thought;
unknown, the destiny of human kind;
unwrit, the future glories to be sought;
he like a human hour-glass: single grains
passing into future mind from past;
and in his presence, all Creation reigns,
the history of the world from first to last.
this secret glory, scholars are allowed;
so fragile; mortal; subtle; noble; proud.
to the truth of what was spoken?Towards the back seats of the lecture room,this tidy, slim, quiet, dark-complexioned youthlistened with unwavering attention;so much in the moment, his mind, so visibly,claiming nothing; receiving all that there was to receive;contributing, all that an audience can:under his so steady listening,I could not lie, blur, dodge; be anythingbut dedicated…
those moments when your rawadolescent ego (and how long it lasted…)is hurt to the quick…how you’d like to forget it,it’s so trivial… but you can’t;so then, you’d like to laugh at it;maybe make a jokey verse about it…but that doesn’t work, either…and, as if it mattered…when I was forever desperatefor the approval of any stranger,let…
that’s the time to speak in praise of love(said Saint Valentine) .When those you have most lovedup and go, without a word,that’s the time to speak in praise of love(said Saint Valentine) .When those you would most lovewant nothing to do with you,that’s the time to speak in praise of love(said Saint Valentine) .When you…
so should Ibe wearing one of thoseblack postboxesto spare the chicks fromlusting after me?Yours metaphorically,
that film that’s forever unreleased:we’re sitting there, quiet,comfortable in each other’s company;there’s an anticipatory pause asI turn to her and say‘You’ve been a brilliant mother…’and it doesn’t matter how she replies;I’ve said it at last…perhaps if I do the retake withevery time, more care in detail(faint background music? No;that would make it artificial…)do the retake,…
to poets, of all people –imagine, if we judged peoples’ liveslike we do their poems…your parents separate when you’re just seven?oh that’s such a contrived, unoriginal theme…it’s been done, and better…you’ve fallen in love for the first time?that’s so banal, so cliched; can you imagineanyone wants to share that?you’ve been dumped forthe first time in…
