Verbatim

"The joy for me is to be in the middle of writing a poem, which is a strange sort of joy, I know. There is no relief at the end—only the knowledge that I’ve got to start thinking about a new poem and all the worries that brings with it. When will it come? How will I recognise it? What if there isn’t another poem? But then time passes and there is. Sometimes it’s weeks, sometimes years. I’m not in a hurry. “Poetry isn’t a horserace,” Daryl Hine used to say to me."

Evan Jones describes his feelings after finishing his new book of poems.

Sunday Poem

BURGAU TO ULM, BUNDESLAND BAVARIA

Two foxes hefted the remains of a pigeon,

within the shadow of an onion-domed steeple,

and from the train’s window, watching: you, me, no one,

mooning the winter through, wishing work to be done,

holding out for bits of money like most people—

like a fox hefting the remains of a pigeon

that had landed to rest its wings and lost everyone.

We’re there now, holding the scene, an example

in our heads, a window through which you, me, no one,

can view your childhood home, the thin, scrambled sun,

and the sickness that drives you to sleep. Our couple—

as two foxes heft the remains of a pigeon,

dragging and chomping bits of bird to fill their own,

the world just darker, colder—rest a little

within the train’s window. There’s you, me, and no one,

all failing to arrive on time at the station,

our lives framed against the February chill,

where two foxes heft the remains of a pigeon

while watching, as a train passes, you, me: no one.

From Paralogues (2012) by Evan Jones.