Philip White has been writing poetry since he was five. Later in life, having freaked when he read in Michael Dransfield’s Like this for years that “to be a poet in Australia is the ultimate commitment”, he strayed from that one true path to commit writing of other sorts. Wine comes in handy.
Poetry falls from stars and bars
And blows tumbleweeds up the street.
It pushes sand dunes over the mountains
And herds fish to the farthest deep.
Poetry fills the dimmest breath with sense,
And strangles lovers in their sleep.
When true poets die
Some usually close wished they knew
Some who knew wished they were close
Few have the true grasp of it
The deading brain running off like bad cream
Leaving a stain some lick from their fingers
The poet chooses not to linger.
For Elias Canetti
On re-reading “The Secret Heart of the Clock”
I was thinking of growing older.
As I did, the ground grew colder.
Which flipped me back to getting younger.
Then, I couldn’t stand the hunger.
So there I was with my warm night,
already in the past: replete; just right.
(Philip White, who is also InDaily’s wine writer, was a contributor to Poet’s Corner in its early print days in The Independent Weekly.)
Readers’ original and unpublished poems up to 30 lines can be emailed, with postal address, to email@example.com
A poetry book will be awarded to each contributor.
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