I love Glenn Colquhoun.
He’s a NZ poet, and I’m sure that I’ll post more about him some other time, and explain why, and how, and suchlike. But for now, here is a poem by him.
AN EXPLANATION OF POETRY TO MY FATHER
To my Mum
And to my Dad
Who made me good
And made me bad
An apology
I was not a son to take the Word
of God to the whole world.
I was not a son to spot a fine
cow at auction.
I was not a son who was able to
fix the inside of dark engines.
I did not win the game
in its final minute.
I was not a son to sweat all day
on the end of a shovel.
I was not a son to remain calm
at the sight of my own blood.
I was not a son to capture the
hearts of beautiful women.
I did not save for a rainy day.
I was not a son to discover
the cures to rare illnesses.
I was not a son to bear you
a generation of fine children.
I was a son who believed
in the making of poetry.
Which is, I suppose, in the end,
pretty much the same thing.
