Epiphany Poem by Conor Dowd

Auden woke me from my sleep
and brought me to Icelandic deep
enchanting wells of inspiration -

where he woke in me a memory
of race or race-experience,
of the muted mass of war
and the voices in the wind
where the icecaps never melt
and the rain in blinding vision
pelts the landscape and is hidden
from the poet's eyes;

where he brought me to a place
where poetry is malleable
and fits into the words
you let become them
and the worlds that they create
are simple, clear and effortless,
their meaning understood;

where he hinted at a place
where visions haunts the dreamer
and take him roughly by the neck,
then flip him cruelly between life and death
and then reveal their answers;

where he showed me how
the sound
and shape
of words collides,
combines and settles
and how the mystery
of poem and printed page becomes apparent...

For a time we walked,
his shadow crossing mine,
the clocks stood still
and Time itself unwound and lingered on the ice.

I sleepwalked for a while beside him
but never saw him face to face
and his footsteps in the snow left nothing,
not a trace or influence
or weight.

But I listened as he spoke,
his face, perhaps, a map of lines
leading here and there when I awoke.