The following poem is all Nick Harkaway’s fault.
wine & wildness
Poets are creatures of wine & wildness,
rose-wounded, briar marked by their
insatiable insensate longings: let them
go forth & craftily beggar the branches
of Idun’s gold tree; let them ferment
the apples of youth & drown in nepenthe,
crossing the Styx with four cold coins
for a return journey. Moon-touched
let them howl at the atoms of sky
and the jaws of surf; let them be wrecks,
mahogany bones jutting skywards
through a billion billion grains of desert
sand; & while they have strength, let them
bear that rage, that terrible sharp love
from which we shrink, until it silences
their music, blood, hands
Yes, yes, YES. This is us, the street poets, the prophets, the word-bringers. This poem is brilliant (I followed you here from your comment at the Overland blog & what a discovery you are!).
Thanks! I’ve just been reading through your stuff, which is awesome – way to totally rock like a new John Agard!
Ezzelent.