Depressing subject, sorry for bringing it up, but I found a poem today while I was sorting through one of the many boxes of junk I have hoarded in various glory holes around the place.
I had scribbled the poem down on the back of a postcard depicting a piece of street art from an artist called Diva, having seen it on my local train, the Dart, while on my way to visit a dying lady in hospital some years ago, and I’ve been blogging today about street art and putting art into the public forum, and I wrote the poem down because it expressed some of my feelings that day, and without it, I wouldn’t have been able to express them correctly, so the whole thing sort of points to putting this poem in a post in case any one else should find it when they need it.
It’s called Looking at your face….
Looking at your face
now you have become ready to die,
is like kneeling at an old gravestone,
on an afternoon without sun, trying to read
the white chiselings of the poem
in the white stone.
Mortal Acts, Mortal Words (1980)
