Poetry and Blood
The leaves are budding on the trees. The buds
are popping everywhere. Spring as in spring in the step
makes sense. In Paris there is the dead of winter
as in you think of death as in great boats
of the dead ploughing through oceans of sky.
And then one week, bang, there is spring
and it feels like summer. You can almost hear
that popping and the blood quickens in the turtles
you’re minding, in that they’re slightly less spaced out
than usual. I read once that’s how reptiles work.
But for us in sun the blood slows down to dream.
There’s a pulse in the world you’re beginning to take.
The blood too sails through the long repair.
Eyes closed in the quiet you hear both beats.
There is you, which is good, who you like, and
then the trees ready to explode into light.
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Comments about this poem (Poetry and Blood by Luke Davies )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
(13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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