first time anyone ever spoke a poem to me in attic greek
it was lines by sappho
to the effect of being shaken by love, like trees shaking in the wind on a mountainside
first sip of tokai wine very good, very drinkable, very intoxicating
first time i spoke to other people about how much i loved the poetry of gerard manley hopkins
first time i wrote down THE WINDHOVER from memory
I do love Hopkins
I do I do
because of language
linguistic magic
alliteration rhyme vision image
the brilliant fire from within
sheer plod makes plough down sillion
shine
the cutting open, the revealing, the opening up, the gash
gold vermillion
BUT in the midst of all this poetry and beauty i know that
i am aging
my body tells me every day that this is so
i think about making days and years count
i want to think that what i am doing is not just all about me
i hope it is not just that
i hope i am making a difference
in a good way
but how do i know
"wer immer strebend sich bemüht"
but am i really striving, or just indulging myself?
how can we really know?
at some point it ends. sooner or later. i hope later rather than sooner,
but how do you know?
i ride my bike uphill, i feel my heart pounding.
i walk upstairs with groceries in my backpack
milk, yoghurt, beer.
the backpack is heavy
and i breahe heavily
and my knees are not strong
and i wonder, a little, if i will make it
it is only two flights
so it shouldn't be a problem
but still ... my breath is not even
in the morning i have a piss hard-on
and so i say, wow, at least that is still working
but is it really? How long does it last? And what is it all about?
Maybe in the end all that matters is
that someone spoke.
It was Greek.
Spoke to me,
But it was not Greek to me.
