Poetry reading, the Robert Frost FarmThat 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 itIs 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
