MY ‘H’

 

Like Norman Nicholson about to enter space

I thought I’d come back on and say

I will soon give up on words

and take up the wordless poem,

having developed an unique style

of stress-relieving, acid-casualty doodles…

they are elegant at every turn of the pen,

and would seem tribal to you.

Before I do that I thought I should empty my heart,

relate something about how we are all

but iron filings firked to the moon;

how we are flying into the filament of bird;

how I see the candle not the Bunsen-burner still…

but then we’d get the problem of the pollen count unsaid.

All those things I haven’t factored in like finding

perfumed moonlight in a clearing in the wood;

how I delight in the way that a bird

can fly from right to left and why too.

This time when I take the journey

away from words to the realm of distraction,

they might be letters, those doodles,

might be toy money, might be lines of law,

or anything imaginable, especially my H!

And I will try to not come back again!