From a Journal

 

Was it you who sat up writing in the summer night?

Was it you who feared poetry won’t solve a thing?

Yes. Despair lay on the water.

Yes. Ghost widows carried books

& vanished

Behind the apple trees…

**

Memory: a girl, her dress yellow as a buttercup…

Behind her, the green chill of the Baltic…

**

Politics in my time is much the same as in Voltaire’s day:

Off with his head; let him keep his head

But live exiled; rail against him;

Read his books in secret.

**

Catherine the Great did not die under a horse.

It’s not even a good story.

**

Livelier dreams do not always await the dreamer.

A principle problem.

**

Then there are the oldies:

The shirt in my dream was from my childhood. It had dreadful stripes. I wore it in the hospital, blind child, alone in a ward. The damned thing came back last night. You can count on the Id.