Sunday Poetry

Poetry has often irritated me. I just dont get it a lot of the time. I’ve always thought that it is because poetry is intrinsically wanky and self indulgent, but I guess it’s possible that my mind isn’t finely tuned enough to understand it. Given that so many people really dig it, it’s probably the latter, now I think about it.

There are 4 poets that I love, however, and seeing as my brain is doing about 20 different types of atrophying right now (pregnancy related, nothing serious), poems are the the perfect balance of light yet deep.

I love Kevin Hart. He melds together both the spiritual and the sensuous.


Dark One, I come to you by stepping back,

Into a world of pawpaw-scented air,

Tied with a string that’s broken here and there

By boats that cut entirely loose and crack

The massive, tender picture of the bay;

Rosella, butcherbird and lorikeet

All speak the ancient language of wet heat,

And a lazy river dreams itself away.

I stand here, Dark One, on a narrow brink

Before a life I know full well and you,

Before a longing for a life I knew,

And telll myself that stepping back a blink

Would bring me close to you, as I once was,

When crumpled water showed its dark, wild life

And brooding morning shadows held me safe

And everything was overfull with us.

From Morning Knowledge by Kevin Hart, 2011

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