Monday, February 12, 2018

Some poems just refuse to form

Some poems just refuse to form. The idea is there: the feeling, the imagery, but like pieces of jigsaw that have been incorrectly cut, the poem refuses to mesh.
And, sometimes it is that the poem  is too powerful in our heads, we haven't got the umph to bring such a mighty thing into shape.
This poem has too much going on behind it; I've posted one or two different versions before, I'll probably post one or two more. Why? Because this is an end of it for now.


The poem you said I should write.


A nurse named Yesterday arrived on your ward  ̶
her grandmother died the day before she was born.

She was gone in a matter of days.
Nurses from the agency come and go, you said;
good relationships are important for patients.

We talked about the sentence of always being Yesterday.
You died; and I cannot put a name to this poem.

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