My mother wrote poetry, my brother writes poetry, my brother-in-law writes poetry. I have been known to dabble myself but none of that will appear in the blog.
Martin Amis said recently that he thought poetry was dead, because poetry captures an instant (and hence stops time) and stopping time is something we don’t like any more as we are so short of it.
I think poetry is not past its tell-by date just yet.
”Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la diritta via era smarrita.”
MIDWAY upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
To
“I’m supposed to be the soldier who never blows his composure
Even though I hold the weight of the whole world on my shoulders”
