Go Ahead, Read Some Poetry

I fell over a Walter de la Mare anthology a few days ago in my local library, a newly printed hay-smelling glossy pristine book full of his poetry. As I read I felt and smelled the time I discovered him. A child who spent more time in the library than in bed, I had pulled an old, huge, purple book off a shelf and tumbled into the musty smelling beating heart of beauty that was Walter de la Mares poetry, and which created my own love of poetry, a love that has never left me, let me down, smelled of sweat, ignored me, snatched the covers off me in Winter, trivialised me or in any way disappointed me. I remember my first de la Mare poem better than I remember my first step, first kiss, first boiled egg. My tastes changed over the years until I finally realised that my poetic needs simply morph with where I am and who I am at any given time, it isn’t about taste.

And we have Simon Armitage, Danny Abse, Heaney, Haddon, Ginsberg, Corso, Cassady, Whitman, Angelou, Neruda……so many and so much beauty, challenge, wonder. Please, read some poetry, wander into it and out the other side a better person. Or at least a person who has had some fun.

 

Here is some Neruda. You are welcome.

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

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