I’m only looking to post this mail
I don’t know if it will get through
To the hostel where you daily seek a kind of health
And stumbling to my hill
I can’t ensure a forward path
To hospitals where they will seek to call you ill
It isn’t clear
That you aren’t horizontal, flat or broke –
Or lucky with the government, provision for the unemployed
There’s not been a cough or word
Since we cooked and laughed in Coventry
And you told me how your mother said that you should marry me
I only have discovered
In this brief and frothing brew of my affection
A little aphoristic pill that puts us sane above the rest:
It would be cynical to cure
All the suffering we are, to contain
The pain we see, with art, of any quality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem