So now it's August, and what have I got to show for it?
Just a poem? The first of the month?
Precisely. But that's enough.
After these introductory lines, which break the water
like a rough stone, and this short stanza
explaining the first two,
comes this part, in which I explain
why you should not lose heart.
Throughout all this talk
of inner sun and poetry saving lives,
as if poetry could take a pulse reading
or put you in the recovery position,
give mouth to mouth,
there still remains the fact of my writing:
I write not to make incisions, to look deep inside
the flesh, or even to best what I'd previously
No. I write because it reflects
what you've given me.
I lift this poem up like a chalice,
like a drunken madman commandeering a trophy,
'Look! Look what she's given me! This poem is her!
It's her flesh! It's her body! She breathes creativity
into me! She puts life, like light, into my cosmos!'
And as I stand there in my loose robes
and sandals, like Nietzsche gone mad
at the flogging of a horse,
you realise now that here comes the bathos.
The part where I let out the wind.
The part where everything unwinds
back down to ugly reality.
But you'd be fooled. You're in your room again, sure
(I don't know if you even left, in flight),
but now you can see the small incandescent core
of metaphor. And it's a simple truth:
I care deeply for you,
as one human being for another.
Care is the core of the human.
And the core of the human is love.
So now, when you exit your room
and you leave your house,
someone cares for me.
And knowing that you realise that
is enough for me to see
that you too care for me.
And never before
was a person so sure
he should end a poem
with a smiley.