Poetry is about feeling,
A way of exploring emotions,
And not a conduit
For erudite allusions.
I don’t give a damn about Typhoeus,
With his hundred heads that never slept,
Or Sphinx, who killed anyone
Who could not answer her riddles
And then drowned herself
When Oedipus could.
Wonder and awe,
The warmth of the sun
And the coolness of the full moon,
Speak to me far louder
Than learned fables.
The touching of skin,
A smile or a sigh
Have more significance
Than Zeus or Hera.
The unselfish care of a woman
For a man or a child;
The labour of a man
For the family he loves
These are the essence
Of poetry for me
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