Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Poem of the week: Silkworms Work and Love Till Death by Peter Porter


Considering his vocation in old age, the poet reflects wryly on what he can expect from a lifetime’s work 


Peter Porter in his flat in Paddington, London.


‘Of course you must still write’ ... Peter Porter in his flat in Paddington, London in 2002. Photograph: Sean Dempsey/PA

Silkworms Work and Love Till Death

He kept a list of poems there were to write,
A personal list, imperative and sour –
Beyond his windows all was digital,
The nominative unpleasantness of thought
Recurred, he reasoned, every day in speech.
He feared the public knew the thing he was,
And one of those who would not be alone.


In blood one day he framed a strategy,
The curt unpitied sadness of a sage
He read about at some South China Court
Who slated certainty and cut up sights
To keep them small – Of course you must still write,
The Master wrote, but little that you mean:
Your paper should not die to prove your words.


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