* Not Anguish
Frozen hearts in concrete cities
Abound today. Of little importance it is
If one is alone. It is not anguish
That speaks thus: It is not anguish which
Lost in explication, deciphers the definers,
The dreamers, the poetry writers.
Poems, not anguish, write themselves.
Words chart the course of lives. Expression
And depression are episodes that fly
From a mullioned window in haste
Like a myriad bats in the mulberry sky.
What makes a bard a bard? What makes
The night writer write? Life swallows
Emotion like a quick gulp of wine.
In diurnal rhythm, nocturnal notation;
Nothing from something. Creation,
Not for I the anguish and the pain.
Jumbled thoughts, a cloudy night
And a winding, long, lonely lane.
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Comments about this poem (* Not Anguish by Rani Turton )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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