Poets tire of endless impositions

which, though not enforced upon us,

remind us yet of lifelong treks

outside ourselves, while digging thus

a graven willingness to tolerate

the possibility of writing something on the minds

of younger people, so soon grown to tend bitter,

sardonic if essentially kindly

human egos. Trodden down by fear

of painful endings in foreign places,

we spot the signs of years expended:

a flabby bum, an incapacity to tie one's laces.

The loved ones begin their journeys, flourishes

of public semi-sincerity easing others' consciences;

why could I not look his photo in the eyes?

I am to be despised for shyness – which nourishes

the unspeakable compensations of art well executed,

in recognition of a grammar school education

and the application of the force of reason.

As the future approaches, so too the freedom of Nirvana.


Chris Hubbard








◄ The Traveller

Outside Painters ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 18th Jan 2020 16:45

WOW! Much appreciated!

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Chris Hubbard

Fri 17th Jan 2020 09:46

Hi Po,
Many thanks for that. I tried a kind of 'flow of ideas' approach with this one. I've found that if you just allow the piece to develop with minimum interference, you can end up with expressions of freedom and innovative structures that you really did not anticipate.

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Thu 16th Jan 2020 22:40

I adored this poem.
It is one that needs reading again and perhaps again.

As are all places and people of interest.


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