Christmas Books

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 . . .