Monday, November 13, 2017

November wind

November wind

by which all that is useless and spent is driven from me

I like to think you begin in the heart of a small wood

curious about the lives and the love of two leaves

and that you are as helpless as anyone

who has faith in poetry


Stream Source said...

'No Comments'

No surprise, what could anyone say ~

William Michaelian said...

Maybe that I blew it? ~

Jonathan Chant said...

Rather lovely - puts me in mind of this poem by DH Lawrence:

Song of a Man Who Has Come Through

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Driven by invisible blows,
The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Jonathan. I have not read that for thirty or thirty-five years, and then only once or twice. Amazing how it is still familiar. Well. That’s poetry for you.