Moonsong

I never mean to write poetry, let alone be a poet.  Yet over the years these pieces have come to me, by chance it seems to me.  Often I write them down in my diary alongside shopping lists, articles to submit, payments to be made.  It seems all so prosaic that I can barely think of them as poems.  So it has been throughout my life.  In the interstices of my daily existence a poem appears, rather like some ancient revelation and just, it seems to me, as miraculous.  On the edge of my work as a painter, printmaker, essayist, journalist, musician, teacher – these slender, flimsy creations emerge.  Are they a sub-text of my life or the real me – the essence of my being caught in a hundred words or so, tossed off quickly as I rush about being a son, a lover, a brother, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a member of the tribe.  If so I am as much in their debt as they are in mine. Looking at them retrospectively I intuit in them some sort of record of an inner struggle, an attempt to come to terms with the seemingly inexpressible, chaotic parts of my life, the black holes of my psyche.

101 עמודים

שנת הוצאה 2020

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