a rare emotion

i was in a waterless river
its bed made of brittle stone
water had not filled it for millions of years
it would rain there
only two or three times a year
plants would grow
flower fertilise and propagate
in three day spans
before the sun's parched burning
exterminated all but their hardy seed

i threw that frontispiece poem out
i wrote it last
as if to say this is what i meant to do
i had no assurance i had done that
but the songs had sung in precedence
the pen had dipped into impossible rains
and something had been built
within the shadows where this writing dwells
a picture of something which cannot be
and must never try to

Celan spoke of the hour
between midday and midnight
when the rope is thrown
and the light of the star
could maybe shine
on you
but the poem you write
must court not only the star
but also the rope
which could easily
burn your throat

every time a poem touches a poem
something miraculous is born
the rarity
of finding an ego-less eye and ear
roaming these common paths for survivors
it is a rare emotion
for a poet
who never expected to be heard

                                      (for Lisa Gordon)