If I hadn't been a poet, I would have wanted to be an architect, and not just because of The Fountainhead. The 20th century's greatest American architectural photographer, Julius Shulman, has died - his Guardian obituary is well worth reading. I have a poem inspired by his Koenig House photo of fifty years ago forthcoming in my new collection, out this autumn.
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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