Twice today, am I to play
Devil’s Advocate again –
advise that I care just enough
to be polite? I read what they
write, is it enough to know
I could not lie? Could not
and would not dash fine
hopes to dust; wherever a
hand is raised I must support
the poet’s creed of brothers
caring for brothers – to do less
is to say worse things than
the unutterable. To stay still
and silent foretells predictable
doom. This same living space,
this room where I breathe poets’
fire feels the pain inherent in
every unuttered word. But the
ask is greater than I am. And
I am inadequate for the task...
© 19 June 2007, I.D. Carswell
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