I thought I would extract this little poem from a sequence in a book
of sequences written over ten years ago. I am a little worried if it
will stand up by itself.
Agon
I have blood clots in my spleen,
The pain is agony;
It is necessary to be brave.
I am no natural poet,
It is not for love of language that I write,
I write to put the pain down on paper,
I write because I must.
Young Rilke asked himself if he was not a great song.
My first poems were cold, empty of life.
It's only love keeps me alive.
'It's your body that I want,
I don't give a damn about your brain;
Your brain was always a bonus.'
I listen to Irish music,
They know about agony.
The dull Winter morning fades
Into a broad cacophony of colour,
Clarified by an Irish lilt.
This coming Springtime I will think of you.
And talking about Irish music I have just finished reading Brenda Maddox's
'George's Ghosts' which is a hilarious romp through the life of W.B.Yeats
concentrating on his less official activities. Highly recommended.
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