I was asked today
after the reading,
(you know that time
for question and comment
poets either love or dread)
‘If you had only read
one poem, what would it be
I wonder, what would it be?’
‘Now?' I said,
‘Yes, now,’ she said,
being a tall woman,
in a silk-blue frock,
glasses pushed well back
into golden hair flecked grey.
I didn’t think.
I knew, and
as it was one
I knew by heart,
I dived right in.
*I was ill
convalescing in fact
when I read this book*
On Poetry
. . .
Does that surprise you?
I had no qualms,
no fears at all,
it was only when
those final words began
to disappear across the hall,
that hall of banners floating
in a fan-fuelled breeze,
I knew no right way
to say those final
italicised words:
*Poetry forms in the face of time
you master form you master time*
You see that couplet
wasn’t mine.
I’d only borrowed it
to make a point,
a point I could not make
in my poor words.
‘Nice to be quoted,’ he said later
as he brought his tea to my table.
‘I know exactly what you mean:
Christmas cake, penquins and the moon . . .
Hmm, just so,’ he said, and smiled.
‘Oh, I did like your poem
about the parrot on the beach.
I’ll read it to my girls when I get home.’
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
I was asked today
after the reading,
(you know that time
for question and comment
poets either love or dread)
‘If you had only read
one poem, what would it be
I wonder, what would it be?’
‘Now?' I said,
‘Yes, now,’ she said,
being a tall woman,
in a silk-blue frock,
glasses pushed well back
into golden hair flecked grey.
I didn’t think.
I knew, and
as it was one
I knew by heart,
I dived right in.
*I was ill
convalescing in fact
when I read this book*
On Poetry
. . .
Does that surprise you?
I had no qualms,
no fears at all,
it was only when
those final words began
to disappear across the hall,
that hall of banners floating
in a fan-fuelled breeze,
I knew no right way
to say those final
italicised words:
*Poetry forms in the face of time
you master form you master time*
You see that couplet
wasn’t mine.
I’d only borrowed it
to make a point,
a point I could not make
in my poor words.
‘Nice to be quoted,’ he said later
as he brought his tea to my table.
‘I know exactly what you mean:
Christmas cake, penquins and the moon . . .
Hmm, just so,’ he said, and smiled.
‘Oh, I did like your poem
about the parrot on the beach.
I’ll read it to my girls when I get home.’
Nigel Morgan has just published an e-book of poems with illustrations by Alice Fox called Within Sight of the Sea. Find it on Amazon.co.uk
