Poetry of Kit Wilson
in so many willful ways
we revisit our past
shaping, twisting, thinking
about all those 'what ifs' and 'what might have beens'.
on dark nights or bright beaches
or lancing from the phosphorescent dance
of a midnight computer screen
our past comes back unasked.
this time in a new guise
we promise ourselves
this time it's different
and the space makes it safe
and we play.
hearts remain unforgetful
be true to the you who you know
choose from the past to rebuild the future
pick airy arches of light over millstone foundations of deceit
If I Could
I'd write of 'amber waves of grain'
sun-spoilt and idyllic.
But in the horizons of my life
threshing machines rend swathes of noisy confusion .
Other times winds beat down from an empty sky
as head and stalk relent.
When all is quiet again
The seed still remembers.
The Long Way Home
I try to write
about sunshine kissing your face
the luminous touch of your skin at night.
I try to write about
bodies moving in sensual unison
how the smell of your hair makes me cry.
Like poets do.
Alliterative adjectives and clever construction seem empty artifice.
They fail to fulfill and they fall away.
Words cannot begin to convey even
the most unremarkable aspects of who we are.
By way of example:
What sentences suffice as I stare in fascination at the imprint
your head leaves on a morning pillow
and dust motes dance in your passing.
What words come close to the inconsequential incomparable knowingness
Of a simple sidelong glance.
This is the now on which the universe of us is built.
Lost in thought
I take the long way home.
Dedicated to my wife, Sue Baker Wilson. She is my sunshine, my way home.
Photograph: 'Sunrise' by Kit Wilson