You never called me baby
Not once through all the long years
Now nearly blind, I fumble
Shaping form from its edges
Like plotting the land with mile markers
This is how a poem works
Seesawing up and down
Between nobility and lust
The indulgence of one
gets to the drought of the other
Three years with no words
It is a gestation I am in
Giving birth to my inner child
Where all the traumas began
At nearly sixty, I feel I am slowly dying
From ailments and loneliness
My body has turned on itself
and you never called me baby
John Tansey
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem