drunk on poetry

.... and wine and beer. but tonight there were firsts

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.