“The task of the artist at any time is uncompromisingly simple: To discover what has not yet been done, and to do it.” – Craig Raine
Born on this date in 1944, Raine is an English poet and past Fellow of New College, Oxford (from 1991 – 2010) where he is now emeritus professor. Raine credits his writing and love of literature to “a great teacher in my growing up years.”
For Saturday’s Poem, and as a tribute to all the plant life that is done for the fall season as the winter months arrive, here is Raine’s,
Dandelions
Dead
dandelions, bald as drumsticks,
swaying by the roadside
like Hare Krishna pilgrims
bowing to the Juggernaut.
They have given up everything.
Gold gone and their silver gone,
humbled with dust, hollow,
their milky bodies tan
to the colour of annas.
The wind changes their identity:
slender Giacomettis, Doré's convicts,
Rodin's burghers of Calais
with five bowed heads
and the weight of serrated keys . . .
They wither into mystery, waiting
to find out why they are,
patiently, before nirvana
when the rain comes down like vitriol.
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