I love poems that grow
out of themselves
out of nowhere really
like an empty window-box
you’ve cleared, but haven’t
any plans for and one day
some seed from
some bird and
some meal
somewhere
settles in and look
yellow courgette flowers
sprawling delicately
all over the garden path
poems that grow from
a random glance
like someone gives you
a useless present and
it asks to be told its story
poems that grow from that
patch of waiting soil
in the heart saying
there’s always something
to surprise, to please when
there’s earth and water
there,
and warmth.
This is just so odd...I posted a poem today that grew out of one phrase someone said in a letter to me...and as soon as I read it, the poem just 'GREW' without any prompting! Love this thought...like a bird dropping a seed. How wonderfully your garden grows, dearest Michael!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Michael, as you say, in truth poems simply grow, poets are just lucky to get to tend the gardens... Rgds, Ivan