The Poet

I've just been riffling through a few old working manuscripts and stumbled upon this one written sometime between 1969 and 1971.

THE POET

That is, if I dare say, my destiny. To grasp

and to expand, each feeling moment. Eternity

not mere renewal. Fearing the used-words

of my thought. My destiny. Are the words mine

to use, is any word, a property. I speak

in fear of loosely spoken

words. My destiny!

***********

Today and alone, I return. To what –

all has changed and still I know it is.

My returning. Home and the word

And the thought of the word. Home, and the skies

are open, and a song

of welcome pounds through my veins. Home,

and my eyes can see the song.

Today. And no more alone. I return.

***************

And night conceals. Not even a whisper is heard.

So silently another dawn – and the fields,

the fields open as if to swallow me. I sit

and remember

(before the night/ another today)

a home. A destiny.

Alive. A sound. A shattering.

A whisper of you

from you for me. All is alive

with sound. The yawning trees, the birds

burst into song – the trees and images

of you. The blossoming and songs.

Songs in my mind and you

beside me. A song. A touch of you

on me; I feel

that you need me (not only I need you)

a sound, a touch – transforming words into

a destiny.

Malcolm Evison