in which the poet, left alone after a happy summer's evening party, re-reads some of his dead friend's letters.[from Alfred Tennyson's In Memoriam]
By night we linger'd on the lawn,
from Carol Rumens: The Guardian: theblogbooks: Poem of the week
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I like the firmness with which the poet calls a halt, and that little touch of ambiguity that he adds in the last two lines. Will "we" be "free at the end" because we're philistines, or because there are some poets who transcend all the categories and stereotypes--as Steve himself did?
[by Steve Bailey]
Come the Revolution
from Carol Rumens: The Guardian: theblogbooks: Poem of the week
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