these many days. They're well behaved,
I've nourished them and guided them
the way a parent should,
found niches for them where I hope they'll thrive.
I've packed their bags with all their likely needs.
They're off, of course, as soon as I release them,
to lands beyond the orbits of my thought,
so far outside the faintest whispers that have reached me -
how can I anticipate
what will befall? or know how they'll conform?
Their bags contain a wide variety of clothes:
allusions and resemblances are there -
the usual dress - along with echoes
from the lives they used to lead,
way back before their present souls
were formed. A range of meanings,
too, is there, along with nuance,
derivation, correspondences - the old,
familiar underclothes. I picture them
alighting on those foreign shores
where skills have other ways with them,
where what they wore when leaving me
is wildly inappropriate. Their difference
erodes their birthright, seals their fate.
There, where the language does things otherwise,
the words assume the roles we could not give.
In local dress they're too conspicuous
to ply their subtle trades. Once firmly lodged
in other climes, they'll not come back to me.
I'm blaming this one on Jim at The Truth About Lies. Commenting on my post of April 5th he wrote: I keep coming back to the idea that a poem has two phases of life that it’s a chrysalis from which a thing of beauty – an imago, such an appropriate word – can emerge once it comes in contact with another’s mind. We, the poets, never get to see our poems like that. Before he got to suggesting there might be a poem in there somewhere, the first few cells of its embryo were already forming.
Hospitals deemed good
will operate on those that ail -
And one I will not dignify with a number...
Earn ten pounds an hour.
Sleeping bag tester - Halfords.