Why do I hate you? Let me count the ways...
Oh I could list them.... but no - not the trivialities
that drive us into impotent blind rage
Where is the one
I used to love so passionately –
and who, I thought,
loved me so passionately too…?
'I wish you could see it - it's an incredible sight -
there's this unbelievable river of people -
like a Ganges or a Mississippi -
all moving at their various speeds
and with good fortune
the experience grows itself
into a poem; so that
the poem then may seed itself
Sit with it like a nurse
at the hour of dusk
every few minutes
and perhaps I came to poetry too late
to dive, a slimmish youth,
innocent as youth was or is
into the rich waters of the lake of metaphor
I started a poem with a serious intent…
but who would ever guess the mess, and where that poem went?
I’d barely writ a line so fine, when the poem turned to me,
‘Rosemary – that’s for remembrance..'
Can you smell it now?
that tough yet choosy herb,
The thing is,
a poem 'means' what it means to each reader,
not your poetry teacher,