Poem: "Man Writes Poem" by Jay Leeming, from Dynamite on a China Plate. © The Backwaters Press. Reprinted with permission.

Man Writes Poem

This just in a man has begun writing a poem
in a small room in Brooklyn. His curtains
are apparently blowing in the breeze. We go now
to our man Harry on the scene, what's

the story down there Harry? "Well Chuck
he has begun the second stanza and seems
to be doing fine, he's using a blue pen, most
poets these days use blue or black ink so blue

is a fine choice. His curtains are indeed blowing
in a breeze of some kind and what's more his radiator
is 'whistling' somewhat. No metaphors have been written yet,
but I'm sure he's rummaging around down there

in the tin cans of his soul and will turn up something
for us soon. Hang on—just breaking news here Chuck,
there are 'birds singing' outside his window, and a car
with a bad muffler has just gone by. Yes … definitely

a confirmation on the singing birds." Excuse me Harry
but the poem seems to be taking on a very auditory quality
at this point wouldn't you say? "Yes Chuck, you're right,
but after years of experience I would hesitate to predict

exactly where this poem is going to go. Why I remember
being on the scene with Frost in '47, and with Stevens in '53,
and if there's one thing about poems these days it's that
hang on, something's happening here, he's just compared the curtains

to his mother, and he's described the radiator as 'Roaring deep
with the red walrus of History.' Now that's a key line,
especially appearing here, somewhat late in the poem,
when all of the similes are about to go home. In fact he seems

a bit knocked out with the effort of writing that line,
and who wouldn't be? Looks like … yes, he's put down his pen
and has gone to brush his teeth. Back to you Chuck." Well
thanks Harry. Wow, the life of the artist. That's it for now,

but we'll keep you informed of more details as they arise.

"Love And Sleep" by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Public Domain.

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said—
I wist not what, saving one word—Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

If someone says, “To be enlightened you must

fast and pray all night.”

Have dinner and go to bed.

If you see a sign, “This way to salvation,”

run the other way.

If someone says,”This Book is the truth,

you can buy it from me.”

Take your money and buy grapes and roses.

If someone says, “He’s talking tonight,

thousands will be saved.”

Go for a walk…listen to the birds

and watch the clouds, and leave

your backpack, your Bible and your Buddha

under a tree and hope

they will be gone when you return.

Where we are going you can’t carry anything,

not even your name.

If there is logic in the above,

be afraid, it’s a lie.

But if you feel something in your chest

as beautiful as the grass beneath your feet,

be grateful…open your arms

and forget everything

you ever thought you knew.

from Heron Dance