This is a poem by John Grey.
Plain speech is anybody’s
but poetry’s an ally of the heart,
a surge to smaller muscles, latent atoms,
as if the inwardness should know
what the ear is hearing.
So open this book.
Read.
The wait is over.
The evidence has found you
an instant before ripening,
both the brain
high in its home in the head,
and the feelings
that can take on
a lavender marsh skullcap
or a rainbow
as a lover.
Yes, it’s a spinning world
and there are many fine mornings
whose sweetness gladdens us,
but where is a grace
as intimate, as infinite,
as words on paper?
Where is a sway so silent
but convincing?
In need of healing –
the poet will medicate his own.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.