Thursday, 5 April 2012


For Ravi de Costa

In my tradition, I begin
not with a greeting
or a welcome, but with
a plunging into the heart
of things.  My true name,
which circumstance leaves me
unable to pronounce, means
The Visitor Will Repeat.

In this brief sojourn
through life’s feast-hall
(flew in from winter, only
to vanish into same) we are
enmeshed in the travail,
in sorrows of hearth
and harbour.  But these,
of course, soon pass.

A long-dead storyteller
warned me I was born
to the struggle.  The struggle
for what?  Books said the struggle:
your fields will know no
reckoning, no avowal, no
release.  And yet, somehow,
good will come of this.

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