Why do poets ponder

The birds of the air...

For their beauty, their freedom, their song?

Why do they find peace in asking

Questions that begin with why?

Why are they so willing to share

The inner most part of their soul,

Hidden in symbolic mazes

With hedges high?

I guess what I'm really asking

Is why do I?

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While most other birds sing a duet,

Or with a chorus hidden up in a tree,

There's a little bird that sings loud and proud, 

Alone, but in harmony.  

This little bird sings outside my window,

While the rest of the birds are asleep. 

This little bird sings with depth and conviction,

While others can only dream.

Where does it find the courage 

To stand alone and sing?

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Disappeared poets,

Disappeared poems,

Disappeared talents,

Disapproved of poets,

Disapproved of poems,

Disapproved of opinions,

Disapproved of words,

Jumped?

Pushed?

Fucked off in disgust?

Who cares?

Do you?

Why?

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We are the lovers
of this kaleidoscope
this ride we’re on
As we twist, we write
of the myriad colours
the fireworks dazzling our eyes
of tears, tantrums, seering sunsets
the veins in leaves
the storms between people
beautiful and terrifying
all at once

We are the lovers
of words on lips
their taste on tongues
and turns of phrase, delicious
The flick of nib on paper
the trail of i...

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https://youtu.be/iTV6F3lTU7o

The accompanying video is of Emma Kirkby (an old family favourite of ours) singing “Dido’s Lament”  by Henry Purcell. It’s one of the saddest pieces of English music I’ve ever heard, and so, is most appropriate.

I’ve modelled my poem around Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night”, on the premise that the night we currently face is not, in any sense ...

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