At this time of year my mind turns to my poetry books.
The latest addition to my collection is Tagore's Gitanjali.
His verse somehow reminds me of the work of a favourite Welsh poet - R S Thomas.
I feel the following from Gitanjali 30 could well have been written by Thomas:
I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter.
He is my own little self . . .
I can imagine that Retired, here from Thomas's Collected Later Poems, might have been written by a modern day Tagore.
Not to worry myself any more
if I am out of step, fallen behind.
Let the space probes continue;
I have a different distance to travel.
Here I can watch the night sky,
listen to how one grass blade
grates on another as member
of a disdained orchestra.
Another book of verse I will return to is William Carlos Williams's Paterson.
It is dangerous to leave written that which is badly written. A chance word, upon paper, may destroy the world. Watch carefully and erase while the power is still yours, I say to myself, for all that is put down, once it escapes, may rot its way way into a thousand minds . . .