Let me shut a door and try to write a poem.
Because though how can I just write, “Twilight sky”?
How, “Inchicore and the railway works’ Gothic terraces”?
How, “Out, and straight by the handsome library”?
How, just, “As night starts: out by the shut shops”?
Or say, “That man bent to a friend’s child, joyously”?
Say, “Myself, out, and alive, for this”? How can I ever say,
(how not say), “House by house, how all is lit,
as if, seeing, we live in all of it”? As if we all live forever.
(As if we all do, in our minutes: whisper it!)
Yvonne Cullen is the author of the poetry collection Invitation to the Air. She lives between Dublin and Inishbofin island, where she leads writing and creativity retreats.
Because though how can I just write, “Twilight sky”?
How, “Inchicore and the railway works’ Gothic terraces”?
How, “Out, and straight by the handsome library”?
How, just, “As night starts: out by the shut shops”?
Or say, “That man bent to a friend’s child, joyously”?
Say, “Myself, out, and alive, for this”? How can I ever say,
(how not say), “House by house, how all is lit,
as if, seeing, we live in all of it”? As if we all live forever.
(As if we all do, in our minutes: whisper it!)
Yvonne Cullen is the author of the poetry collection Invitation to the Air. She lives between Dublin and Inishbofin island, where she leads writing and creativity retreats.
