Last night we watched a wonderful programme, about WB Yeats, written and narrated by Sir Bob Geldof; he introduced almost every Irish related artist that you can think of, who had been invited to read Yeats' poems.
Yeats, the master of the poem; I learnt so many things that I did not know about him, for one I wasn't at all clued about the depth of his involvement in politics.
Sir Bob told a good old story, about a man who truly changed things; he talked about the need to go on living, about the role of death having so little a role in life.
Yet it is death that changes most of us, most of us have come through, or passed by death, in one scenario or another.
I've written a few death poems, death with you right there in my mind; the death of our relationship, a death, whose purpose, I may never be destined to find.
That death, I knew of no such kind; so much easier to write of the loss, not the death; so much easier trying to displease you, without giving a toss.
But could I put it in a story, could I give it the gloss, could I sit in that smoke filled room, inhaling from the sticks of joss, could I ever save myself from writing the dross.
I write soft porn stories, you are almost always the source, they are neither death nor glory, but of course they are written for you, studying at The Bourse.
I sleep with those images good and close to me, I'm in a semi-dream world, it is half the world I see; there go the morning tractors, we're all on our way to work.
Of course you know so well of the country, how could I have been such a jerk.
From St Lawrence to St Ouens you watched the fruit and flowers grow; yet to say that I was the one, no, that was a love you could not show.
We spent so long together, we spent so long apart, you were in the horse drawn carriage, I was in the potato cart.
