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A poem for every year I've written 1

Monday, 1 August 2022 at 14:35



I am a dry wind,
conceived in the womb of the Red Sea,
blowing from burning libraries at Alexandria,
searching for knowledge lost at my birth.

Men call me arid,
but I purify my desert
drying any pools of polluted feeling.
And in that pebbled, heated land where no men live
their forgotten temples lie buried in my sands of thought.

I cannot move forever.
My impetus dies in the humid lands,
a southern end of my existence.
Instead of purifying I become defiled.
From a Mediterranean birth to an Atlantic death,
a dying breeze off the Accra shore
and I weep.


My first poem anyone thought fit to print. Ronnie Sullivan, the editor of Poetry and Audience told me he thought of it as a metaphor for history. In terms of meteorology it’s a bit of a stretch to have the wind beginning in the Red Sea and blowing across the Sahara to West Africa, but poetic licence was given to me by this poem.

August 2022
Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat
12 13
14 15 16 17 18 19 20
21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31      
April 2021
September 2020
May 2020
March 2020
February 2020
January 2020
July 2014
July 2011
February 2010
January 2010
March 2005
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