I found this beautiful poem tucked into page 64 of the latest edition of The New Yorker. It’s written by Professor Lawrence Raab, who has his seventh collection of poems, “The History of Forgetting” coming out in June.
It’s 100 words, and one lovely minute. Click below the fold and enjoy.
THE POEM THAT CAN’T BE WRITTEN
is different from the poem
that is not written, or the many
that are never finished—those boats
lost in the fog, adrift
in the windless latitudes,
the charts useless, the water gone.
In the poem that cannot
be written there is no danger,
no ponderous cargo of meaning,
no meaning at all. And this
is its splendor, this is how
it becomes an emblem,
not of failure or loss,
but of the impossible.
So the wind rises. The tattered sails
billow, and the air grows sweeter.
A green island appears.
Everyone is saved.