The Wrong House

I went into a house full of people writing notes. ‘Hush,’ they said, ‘move quietly here, don’t dance or shout; We are the poets exploring this and that, Examining daylight, odds and ends of a universe.’

I thought, obviously this is the wrong house. This is the house I’ve spent my whole life avoiding. It was you I meant to visit — you poetry, Who has always spring in the brain, whose house Is unquestioningly brilliant.

‘Sit down,’ they said. ’Your first lesson’s this: Make sure for each line you write You write another that can explain it. Keep these, along with useful addresses, In a separate notebook.

‘And now here is a pen and here Is a scribbling pad. For inspiration Some object of immense beauty will soon Be brought before you. Study carefully. Let your examination be detached. Professional.’

On a plate they brought a dead nightingale, The remnants of its song Dribbled down the willow-pattern. ‘Dip your pen in this,’ they said, ‘the results Are satisfying, the sonnets stupendous.’

Brian Patten