Whispers

I invested all my feelings
in a poem for you.

And locked them carefully in the words
with time as the key.

This is not that poem but now you know it's there
be careful and do not force the lock.

6 April 1991

Why do we writers do it? We’re good with words and yet we insist on burying our meanings. You have no idea how much pleasure I got going through The More Things Change and grafting in in all those extra layers knowing full well the vast majority of them would be missed. Is it a test? I suppose it must be. It’s not enough that you read my book or even enjoy my book (and believe me there’s plenty there on the surface) you need to get me.

This poem wasn’t written for you. I didn’t know you when I wrote it. It was for her and she never read it. Even if she had she wouldn’t have got it. She never got any of my poems. She never saw herself in them. How could she not see herself in them? I wonder if she still has them. Probably not.

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