and wind cleared the tops of trees, and passed;
the sun’s brave tribute dropped beyond the ridge.
On TV, the British laureate talked about the role
of poetry: how solitary events might meet the public
ones, disrupting the quiet of the page. The other
poet spoke of growing up in a town built from
the clanging of car parts, machinery— by the hands
of working men; and of his father’s love of Russian
novels, the ones filled with orchards and train
stations, characters fraught with the drama of too
much thinking and drink; love, desire, both, all
of the above. What is the essence of poetry?
asked the TV host. I didn’t catch their answers,
from trying to remember the scenes that led
the woman in the direction of the approaching
train, from trying to think of what the season
might have been; whether yellow leaves were
pasted to damp ground, or if she wore a coat
with a collar, because the morning was cold.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
