New Poem

Portrait of a Poet


This is the face of an aloof peasant
Certainly not looking at you
But gazing sideways into the distance
Or is it the future?
Well, time and space
Come to the same thing eventually,
And there does seem to sound,
Clattering on at the back
The tin cans of the marriage carriage,
For the past is ever present.

And the mouth?
It’s more than sardonic,
Somewhat judgementorial,
(There's no such word)
Not really conspiratorial
But perhaps a little bitter,
The touch of acid
That flavours the richness of possibilities.
Garlic might do just as well,
But would people be alarmed
By a foreign element?

And yet,
The arm lies at ease on the settee
The wrist supple,
The fingers delicately long
Weaving into each other
A pattern of right and left
Mingling reason with intuition.

And do you remember the talk at the wedding reception
Near Orleans?
Where the statue of the maid stands in the centre
And the cathedral echoed,
When someone said "Oh a poet that’s wonderful"
The poet remarked a little crossly,
"Why should we conceitedly think our views
Are better than anyone else’s?
Everyone, in some sense, is an artist
When they live their lives
And do not lose heart",
And thought, but did not speak
Of Belfast and Sarajevo.
Then someone added,
"But still we are grateful for a vision"
And the poet was humbled
Knowing that opinions are not enough.

Red is the predominant colour,
The settee and the stripes of the tee shirt are red,
A cluster of colour
In a humdrum world,
Red that reminds us of blood, of politics
Of the shepherd’s warnings and delights,
Morning and night,
And the shepherd turning
Into a peasant or poet,
For in this world
We play many parts.

Painting by Jenny McRaeŠ

painting2a.jpg (138139 bytes)

Painting and photo by Jenny McRaeŠ