Tuesday, 5 March 2013


I found this poem on a friend's site and thought it was probably one of the best poems I have read. The person's name is Susan Birch and if this is an example of her work, then I am a fan for life.


Unknowing I journeyed blind until Yeats
Drew straight into my mind a scene so evocative 
I dare not breath, lest I dispel the richness,
The provocative depth and sight of those 'embroidered cloths'
To which he likened the night.

I laughed at Carroll's Jaberrwok and Snark.
Grieved as Tennyson's mood so dark questioned his God
And I faltered with him where he had firmly trod.
I wandered o'er Wordsworth's hills where his heart
Had danced with daffodils.

Keats showed me the timelessness of art
And the sweet transport of his heart as the nightingale sang.
I thrilled to the exotic tang of cinnamon upon the wind
As I stood on Masefield's quinquireme as peacocks
Strutted amongst the tamarind.

Like a dry sponge, my raging thirst drank in Byron,
Shelley, Coleridge. Their words fed my soul, filled me
With joy and agony, made me somehow whole. But why?
What compelled these poets to see their world
With such an emotive eye?

In Sonnet Eighteen, Shakespeare answered me.
'So long lives this and this gives life to thee'.

Susan Birch