A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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Comments
It all makes for interesting reading and it's certainly good to hear it being given a wider airing here.
I can't help but think when I hear persons such as Martin Amis declaring the death of poetry that we're in for another round of evaluation, re-evalution and general head-nodding and shaking. I'm sure every generation does this.
Another post you wrote, I think about C. Day Lewis, struck home with me when I picked up an anthology compiled around the early part of the 20thc. Most of the poets I had never heard of, and the overwhelming style of the book leaned towards the safe styling of the 19thc. Ah, I thought, here is another editor content to sit with the status quo, rather than challenge it.
Anyhoo, this wee comments box was never designed to contain 'thoughts on what makes poetry poetry,' but it is nice to be provoked.