The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes. MARCEL PROUST

Saturday, 16 March 2013

Walking the Poem

I took my poem for a midnight walk,
thinking I might find out its meaning,
what it was about, how it might talk.

I took my poem for a midnight walk:
the sky above a pin cushion of stars,
the moon a melon slice, the silver birches

leaning into obscurity, half tangible,
half immaterial; and as I paused to take
my bearings, my poem ran ahead

and lost itself among the shadowed gardens
and dark alleyways. To tell the truth
I felt relieved to be without the pull

and tug of its straining leash. I felt
light-headed, fancy-free, rid of a burden.
I took my poem for a midnight walk;

but it wanted a life of its own and fled
into a night of stars blinking like diamonds
around the moon’s shut eyelid, and the trees

sighing into a midnight wind,
unwitnessed, undescribed. I took
my poem for a midnight walk; it fled;

I got my own life back; and was content
that I could live life now a little bit
without the painful struggle to express it.

6 comments:

pilgrimpace said...

fantastic! such a true poem

Andy

am said...

I like your imagery.

If poems run free.
Why not me?

dritanje said...

How well this expresses the feelings involved in writing a poem - it is beautiful, solitary walker. I especially like the lines about the birch trees,describes their 'immateriality' so well.

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks, all, for reading and commenting.

Yes, those birches do shimmer in and out of vision, don't they?

Amanda said...

thank you, robert, for this rich paean to the goddess on today of all days, when st paddy ran her and the earth-centric traditions out of ireland.

The Solitary Walker said...

Thanks for this, Amanda!