The authority on poetry pauses; <br />the world holds its breath. This head – greybeard, <br />skinhead – forehead already lined <br />with self-imposed responsibility for <br />the continuance of the known world, <br />applies itself. The word is, <br />discrimination. The fingers curl <br />like scalpel? like talons? around <br />the ballpoint of the turning world, <br />the keys that tap the dew of mercy <br />or beat the bitter rain of judgment on the poet’s brain <br /> <br />somewhere in the world <br />a childish head bent <br />over a desk clutching <br />awkwardly a chewed ballpoint <br />with total absorption <br />summons the unwieldy letters <br />that one day will greet each other in <br />the boundless heart <br />and write the first great poem <br />of a new age beyond all <br />imagining save his or hers <br /> <br />nestled in her favourite secret place - <br />look, there she is, where <br />the sunlight catches the leaves at <br />the end of the garden, by the woods – <br />a girl, her head caught in a golden halo <br />of magic, reads a book in a land where <br />time and place have paused <br />to read with her <br /> <br />blest are they that give. <br />blest are they that receive.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0233-the-blest/
