In a poem we always seem
to find ourselves in another country
where our world walks down
an alley past shut doors.
We wonder about doors
and the mysteries behind.
Phone calls come and go, aeroplanes
pass overhead and the pool party
two doors away boisterously continues.
W really have no time for doors, for keys,
or other implements which may secure.
Poets are voyeurs looking in for a moment,
describing and ignoring the lifetime.
4 comments:
We certainly don't write sagas like Trollope and Dickens!... except we do in the Dear Susan-letters, in the Rye Road poems too, by linking moments...
Hmmm.
You're right, Aisha, we don't write epics as much as we play hopscotch with the moments.
Helm.
Super musing out of your first stanza.
Enjoyed.
Rus
Thanks Rus,
I'm beginning to think about the poetic process, as I see you also are, when I visit your blog.
Helm.
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