Poetry reading, the Robert Frost Farm

That loves a wall,
The separation
From others.

‘No more heroes,
No more dreams,
Life’s what it is,

Not what it seems’
I wrote long ago
When the stars fell down.

And how their child lost,
Robert’s and Eleanor’s,
Shines in my mind.

Their folding
Of the clothes
No longer needed;

The falling emptiness;
The ‘Why?’ crying
Through the heart’s universe,


September grieves in me;
My child, lost, shines
In the New Hampshire afternoon.

Words leave my mouth,
Weighted as apples
On a tree; words farmed

Long ago in a room
In Swansea, damp
With a coffined silence.

I read to people
I will never reach.
We are all in shadows.

A poem is not a step
In one’s ambition;
The drama of it

Is not an act
To get somewhere.
‘I am a singer merely,

I sing my song’.
Something there is
In me




Copyright © Adel Gorgy 2011 Photograph Harvest of Memory after Van Gogh (Wheat Field with Cypress)
Cross-Cultural Communications Art & Poetry Series Broadsides # 37
Adel Gorgy  Contemporary Photography
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Abstracting Abstraction

The scream of the blood
That the staring eyes shed.
Grief, a visitor,

In the rooms of the head.
Something there is
In me

That loves a wall,
The separation.
My words,

Their words, fall
Like apples
When there

Is no-one around,
And the air, natural as God,
Consumes the song.

Peter Thabit Jones