Lukas's feet, first day of life.
A poem about grandparenthood, as requested for a possible BBC radio programme. The title refers to Cyril Connolly's idea - not a precise quotation - about the enemy of promise being the pram in the hall, in other words a kind of stunting. Picture later.
The pram in the hall is pushed through the front door.
Dear enemies of promise, how beautiful you are,
and all the more so now, seen from the further shore,
not yet of life, just a street and a parked car.
Dear enemies of promise how beautiful you are.
First crawling, first steps. Second on the scene,
we look both ways at parents, our children once, before
your crashed-into-life appearance, your perfectly serene
sense of completion that brings us to the door.
Dear enemies of promise we’re eager to see more.
Your fragility anticipates our own by a few years.
To us you are transfusions of charm, the meadow star,
the yew and the tower, the moon with its bright shears,
the waxing light we enter as if from very far.
Dear enemies of promise how beautiful you are.
5 comments:
Gorgeous - I have always thought misanthropy in poetry to be misplaced. Joys are joys; there is plenty of other time for work. And what poor work it will be too if it is joyless.
Congratulations.
Thank you, Plump. We clearly agree on this!
They look like footballers legs to me. George, I hope you get a season ticket.
You should see the arms. Weightlifter. Olympics 2032.
Embrace your enemies, I say, as the words clearly relish the conflict.
Baby toes are just the best sight.
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