Poems go to work on public transport
and come home
with gritty realism
pressed in the tread of their shoes.
Poems sit in airconditioned offices
in tottering towers
window watching,
waiting for the next plane to hit.
Poems go out for a day in the country
and come back
with the grandeur of nature
stuck in their hair.
Poems travel to foreign countries
and return with cases full
of human similarity vignettes
and postcard ‘delicate miniatures'.
of scenic beauty.
Poems go on summer holidays
and come home sandy
with tidal urges
and the sound of sea in shells.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem