I so want to write a poem. I looked hard to find the poem deep inside but I found nothing but jumble; something needs to be born but is not yet conceived. I am too much of me and of our fast failing world with all its frantic whirring. My list of things to do today is frozen on my brain which is like a computer screen that just won’t clear. Where are you poem? I know you are there somewhere deep; hiding, crouching low but with your words bound tight like a plant neatly entwined, severely choked by bindweed, a flower so delicate looking but deceptively murderous in its habit.
Last night at midnight I sat upon the window’s seat in my bedroom, the still-close-to-full moon was shining across the river - it was so bright that I had taken it for a light glowing somewhere. I was hypnotised; I should be used to it by now and even though this time there was no life to be seen moving in the water, only the waves and ripples of the mountain’s stream which glinted and danced as they flowed over the stones, I was still entranced. I should really have gone out into the garden but was already in my pyjamas.
No excuse that as I do actually own a dressing gown. I should have taken my camera out (note to self - never put off what must be done until tomorrow, only ever put off what can be put off).
I’ll leave you with a poem anyway, one so good that I wish I had written it! It's a translation from the Welsh and is still amazing . I attended one of her workshops once and happen to know that she is a Welsh speaker and one of Wales’ top poets. I hope you like the poem too.
I hope you liked American Tune in my previous post. In my next post I will tell you why I posted it.
Anyway here is Coupling, a poem about love.
Life is a house in ruins. And we mean to fix it up
and make it snug. With our hands we knock it into shape
to the very top. Till beneath this we fasten a roofbeam
that will watch the coming and going of our skyless life,
two crooked segments. They are fitted together,
timbers in concord. Smooth beams, and wide.
Two in touch. That's the craft we nurture in folding
doubled flesh on a frame. Conjoining the smooth couplings
that sometimes arch into one. Aslant above a cold world,
hollow wood wafting passion. Then stock still for a time.
And how clear cut the roof, creaking love at times,
as it chides the worm to keep off and await its turn.
English translation by Joseph Clancy
Bye for now,