A reader has asked me whether I’ve ever sent anything out for publication. She mentions what she is kind enough to call my poems. I really don’t know how to describe them but if that is thought appropriate I am grateful. And no, I haven’t sent them anywhere.
Her e-mail to me comes as I ponder how and whether to continue with this blog. I have felt I have mined the vein which has brought a friendly response – though it is not only in a literary sense that I have wanted to ‘get through’ to people, as the ‘About’ section here implies.
However, her enquiry did cause me to remember the odd notes I have made over the years– and I was surprised to find how contemporary they seem. I therefore hesitantly append an extract (imagine it in single spacing, which I can’t work here):
May 29, 1991
Thanks be to God for scents and memories,
For fleeting impressions in a fragrance.
This blossom recalls a longing unremembered,
Itself an event, but even then an absence,
A poignancy much desired.
Did it happen? What is this whisp of coal smoke
In a quiet surburban street? Where is the warm hearth?
Was I ever there? When I was, what then
Did I remember?
A warmth, a fragrance, a memory, a longing,
Regents Park of a late August afternoon,
Broad sunlight, tall trees;
I was there. Perhaps I dreamt it.
If it existed, it spoke to me of something forgotten.