It's world poetry day

So says the United Nations. So here are two:

Two Deer

Between our house and the Tschantzes’,

Near the corner of the patch that we hardly ever mow

Where we never mow,

Came two deer,

A buck and a doe,

Down the hill then over the creek and off.

A stream of unmowed lawns and untrimmed hedge

Still springs from chores undone

And runs for the running

Of the wild life that remains.

One day I will do those chores

And block up those holes in the roof

So nothing will fly through our property.

A Confession

In this garden there could be gods—

A Gormley Christ, a laughing Buddha,

Mohammad uncomplaining,

Saving a girl from being buried too soon—

But it’s all too obvious.

Instead I could paint or scratch their names

On the underside of rocks

And hide them around the place,

Under a tree or by the stream,

Places of holy power.

But imagine yourself carving

Rock like a bronze-age scribe—

Better to think the places where the gods would lie,

Or better yet to leave them out

And write the gods in a poem about the garden.

But imagine yourself writing

A poem about the hidden gods—

This poem too should be unwritten.