Classic Poem

Thinking of John Clare

I lived like a gnostic watchman
in a room that had three doors
and no windows. The walls were
closing in. My mind broke. I believed
it was being cavitated, like a Swiss
cheese. Anyone could walk through it.

And did. Prearranged for dreadfulness,
I went missing. I was unable to go back to
find myself until my fireworks and boiling
sorrow had turned alluvial, motionless, as
in a young woman's mournful surrender. I
lay in the grass a long while. As my hunger

returned, the grass would not bury me
so I ate it and grew strong. I'd had much
luck in my life — and the best of it came in
that meadowrest, often while thinking of John
Clare, when I would smile and decide to
delay finding out if I could be lucky in death.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 185, no. 5, Feb. 2005. Used with permission.English