It's just poetry, it won't bite


03.29.12 Posted in today's words by

Gerald Solomon was born in London and studied English literature at Cambridge University. After a short spell as a sales assistant at a book shop in London’s Charing Cross Road, he worked as a producer at the BBC. Subsequently becoming engaged in education, he helped found general studies courses at Hornsey College of Art, and this led to an enjoyable period teaching poetry courses at Middlesex University. He retired early to paint and write. His poems have appeared in numerous US and UK magazines and journals and he is currently preparing his first collection. He is married, with four children, and he lives in Manhattan. 

By Gerald Solomon

I reach this Welsh town late in last night’s rain,
my Ford’s metal stopped, apart in the silence.

Black streets flare in orange sodium.
Rows of shut houses, life gone indoors.
A place turns to face you like a stranger.

Night as ink-blot with its glamour of sharp stars.
Steep clouds, underlit amber skud away
in some lost high wind where wonder
and utterance have gone before.

You look up, admire still, with a question.
Lost for proper words, prefer a certain caution. 
But who today can write a hymn?

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