The Poet Desires

© N Nazir 2023

to be in the storm, amidst the howl of this whip-surging being

to then experience the goodness of being indoors, even if one’s hair is plastered to one’s head.

The poet is provoked into oneness and awe by the sight of a crow drinking from a puddle of blue-sky water, drinking its own winsome reflection.  The poet’s heart clenches at this spectacle.  For a moment they consider the impermanence of beauty and the pain of not being able to hold on to it.

The poet seeks to be rendered uncomfortable in order to shake hands with their muse. The muse is sometimes a shadow, more enchanting than they remember. Elsewhen, its appearance wears a dishevelled look as a room after a tornado has left.

The poet doesn’t care if the sun doesn’t come. They know it’s there and that’s enough. They seek the solace of library and it simply won’t do if the sun is blazing whilst they’re in the library.  The poet is a pluviophile and seeks the library weather of rain.

The poet sometimes agonises over lines of unequal length. The poet thinks a lot about death.  

The poet wonders if anything new will ever happen to earthkind ever again. Or if the same tortures will repeat themselves over and over with them in the middle, ineffectual, or perhaps, affecting everything.

The poet seeks nobility and tries to describe it but words don’t work and neither does paint.  Only wind and water dress it right but they remain susurrus and formless.

The poet again contemplates beauty.  But this time, the simple wonder of a bumbling bear or a lonely buttress of rock jutting out into nothing.  Or other wild things, feeling themselves wild amongst them.  If only as a tiny grass snake or the unfurling stem of a dreaming cornflower.

© N Nazir 2023

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