Poem

John van Wyngaard

Because more folk write this stuff

than ever seem to read it

(or buy it, or talk about it)

-and in recognition this moment

of the deep value instead

of silence and listening and being,

I shall not be writing this poem.

So it will have no boats to float,

no young men or armadas to send

anywhere, for any end;

no disbelief-willing

or unwilling-to suspend;

no reaches of the heart

it’ll strain to extend;

no hurts or sorrows

it will try to mend.

Being what it is

there’re no wings to bend

to start hurricanes

at some far end

of any world.

Solitary, orphaned,

It won’t need a name,

won’t be adopted,

will cause you no pain.

Featured on 4 February 2021