Poem 26

Image, metaphor, simile – a poet’s whole working existence is about endlessly describing one thing as another thing … this is my joke about that, a poet suddenly (and forever) trapped in the literal and banal, only able to see the one thing for what it is and completely unaware of the missing dimension (though you can feel him inchoately grasping after it) … 

… it still makes me laugh but of course it’s tragic too … especially now that I’ve had a little taste of what a stroke can do …

Following A Blow On The Head The Poet Loses Certain Faculties

Coming out of the hospital I spent the day
in the park
the trees were filled with a sound like
rushing air on leaves
the sun spun on the water like a spinning watery sun
with a barking noise a dog chased a piece of wood
returning with a stick in its mouth
lovers made love
sweepers swept
children everywhere
ran like swarms of infants across the green grass
playing games racing races
until evening signalled the end of the day

still the ducks were diving in the lake
legs waving looking like nothing so much as
upside down amphibious birds