The Only Work
by Glyn Maxwell
When a poet leaves to see to all that matters,
nothing has changed. In treasured places still
he clears
his head and writes.
None of his joie-de-vivre or books or friends
or ecstasies go with him to the piece
he waits for
and begins,
nor is he here in this. The only work
that bonds us separates us for all time.
We feel it
in a handshake,
a hug that isn't ours to end. When a verse
has done its work, it tells us there'll be one day
nothing but
the verse,
and it tells us this the way a mother might
inform her son so gently of a matter
he goes his
way delighted.
1 comment:
Isn't it funny how poets like to write about being a poet and about using language and words and the act of writing itself!
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