0233 The Blest Poem by Michael Shepherd

The authority on poetry pauses;
the world holds its breath. This head – greybeard,
skinhead – forehead already lined
with self-imposed responsibility for
the continuance of the known world,
applies itself. The word is,
discrimination. The fingers curl
like scalpel? like talons? around
the ballpoint of the turning world,
the keys that tap the dew of mercy
or beat the bitter rain of judgment on the poet’s brain

somewhere in the world
a childish head bent
over a desk clutching
awkwardly a chewed ballpoint
with total absorption
summons the unwieldy letters
that one day will greet each other in
the boundless heart
and write the first great poem
of a new age beyond all
imagining save his or hers

nestled in her favourite secret place -
look, there she is, where
the sunlight catches the leaves at
the end of the garden, by the woods –
a girl, her head caught in a golden halo
of magic, reads a book in a land where
time and place have paused
to read with her

blest are they that give.
blest are they that receive.