On Receiving Your Letter for My 39th Grief.

This poet grows grey-bearded,

Claws eyes, shuts out Seasons,

Love tales, reasons -

Lies, all lies!

 

Some long ague descends me

No word mends me

No sword spends me,

No love grieves me!

 

Lost as ever lost, I eat

My gruel,

And think of death

The tool of reason!

 

This long year

The black crow flies,

And takes my heart,

My head, my eyes

Beyond this season.

 

If I could start again…

No poet I, no pen!

No hopes, no dreams

All unfulfilled

No ragged expectations;

The hard cold light

Of truth would freeze

My lips, my eyes, my fingertips

And bond no lesion.

 

But now I feel the loved one keen

And pare the flesh,

While loss howls naked at the rib

And night descends

To snare my grief in…

 

David Lewis Paget

 

Reviews

[Robert Lindsay]

This is a dark poem, obviously as the poet is going through a grim time. I struggle to grasp the metaphors but it is quite intense. In times like these hopefully writing is at least somewhat therapeutic. However this is perhaps a time where the use of words becomes exposed as inadequate. Sobering thoughts.