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“fundamentally,” she said,
“i think you have always been
poet first.”
the last dregs of August sun
were bleeding through a sky like
tissue paper,
and we were trapped in the yellow
amber of fading light.
i remembered a boy
about whom
it was so hard to write;
and then it struck me
the writing was slow not because
i was stuck, but because
i was using the wrong language.
so now we go back.
,to the mother-tongue.
“tell me the story,
again;
this time in poetry.”
A W A I T !
“i think you have always been
poet first.”
the last dregs of August sun
were bleeding through a sky like
tissue paper,
and we were trapped in the yellow
amber of fading light.
i remembered a boy
about whom
it was so hard to write;
and then it struck me
the writing was slow not because
i was stuck, but because
i was using the wrong language.
so now we go back.
,to the mother-tongue.
“tell me the story,
again;
this time in poetry.”
A W A I T !