for Dinçer Aktuerk
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Writing poetry is no more a vocation than good health is.
We all have two lives. The second begins when we realise that we only have one.
When they broke into my chest the surgeons swarmed in to cut and clamp and sew and drain and swab the things they do when you are not at home Where was I? Out like a life Waking wounded now in tangled tubes to see the doctors lined to welcome me so very pleased with themselves The wound is a red line I must not cross It marks a raid on an inarticulate heart a breach a robust attempt on a wall not previously pierced The flesh the pain the ache the sore instructs me I have been discovered by a vast tenderness