Like a poet, whose eyes have long
stared at the blank page, those Christmas
lights blink tentatively. It is January
we throw ourselves at the feet of —
the hot water music of a late storm, a post-
party-noose, tightening its grip —
this cruel month of sales and returns and
promises to be kept. Pity those who die
by their lists. This year, aim to avoid
the target, admire the unresolved, attain
only time to dream. Let this year
happen, form its own beautiful shape.
2012
Filed under poetry
Happy new years…may your new year be filled with all the love and joy one heart can be filled with.
‘the hot water music of a late storm, a post-
party-noose, tightening its grip —’
— brilliant, g!
the entire poem summons Live or Die’s final sentence:
‘I say Live, Live, because of the sun,
the dream, the excitable gift’
A cracker of a poem! I fall in the no lists camp, for sure – just let things flow of their own accord
Don’t believe anything those people write in self-help or motivational books (they should be banned – haha).
Sound advice in an astutely drawn poem – I will endeavour to ‘avoid the target, admire the unresolved’
you know..i was just about to make a list…but after reading this…will scrap it and just let it flow.. thanks..
A fine sentiment, Graham, and not cramming one word too many.
Wonderful poem! Love your last two lines… yes indeed: allow the year to make its own beautiful shape. Happy and Peaceful New Year to you.