Lower than half mast, almost reptilian, my nearly closed eye lids admit only a sliver of a view; two shades of blue, a ruler-straight line where the sea meets the sky. The sound of the winds off the ocean mingles with the bright crash of the waves; a constant music for my somnolent soul. As my eyes finally close, thoughts drift through my head; casual visitors only, they are not invited to stay. These are the poetry days, when my mind lingers over only the most beautiful words; contemplates only the picturesque thoughts. These are the days designed to provide what I need for the rest of the year.
They are the hours of needed bliss.
There comes a time in August when the seaside calls. I hear it at the breakfast table or in a line of crawling traffic. It sings down telephone wires; drowns out even the most scintillating of conversations. It is insistent, persistent, tempting, and there is nothing for it but to answer. And so I throw drawstring trousers into a straw bag. Find my widest-brimmed hat. I place a stack of new books in the backseat of my car. And soon, crossing the bridge to the island, I notice, with barely contained glee, the lights on my cell phone become fainter and fainter till eventually I know I am deliciously unreachable. I have left the prose of life far behind me. I concentrate on the poetry only.
While I’m away for the next few days, I’ve scheduled some of my favourite poems to share with you all.
An evocative picture.
A wonderful poem.
I hope you enjoy these poetry days.
Do let me know which ones you like best.
by James Wright
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break