In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk
The quote towards the end of this new poem is from “Requiem” by Anna Akhmatova, translated by A.S. Kline, 2005. The poet was writing of the Stalinist purges. Her poem of witness was not published until decades later, in her old age.… Continue reading Who's Human ?
WB Yeats’ poem “The Second Coming” was written almost exactly a century ago, but if it’s possible for a poem to become truer still with age, then surely this one does.
And yet…Yeats wrote his poem in 1919, in the aftermath of the First World War and the… Continue reading The Gaze Blank and Pitiless
“The Conversion of Saul” by Michelangelo, Pauline Chapel fresco, Vatican City.
This “I” we each inherit, made spine
of the world, axis, pole,
look-out from the world’s helm
gazing on the universe,
gazing on you,
gazing on death…
“Mummy,” I said,
seven or eight years old,
“I have decided
that I am God.”
We were walking east
along Glebe Road
towards the… Continue reading West of Caritas
“What is the purpose of poetry ?” I ask myself. Sometimes I find this question simple to answer. And sometimes the answer itself is simple. The purpose of poetry is to work.… Continue reading Word Play
I thought this was true in 2014, when it was written. I did not know then that the truth can become truer.… Continue reading I See Everywhere the False
This poem seems to follow on a bit from the previous one uploaded here. But whereas I wrote “I Insist my Ribs…” over three years ago, “Counting” has been written in the last few days.
I have a vague idea of what… Continue reading Counting
I like the idea of mayhem in the crematorium…… Continue reading I Insist my Ribs Contain Stars
Our democratic politics isn’t working and, in my view, its dysfunction is one of the major causes of our present national crisis.
In so many ways, our political structures and democratic processes – not just here in the UK, but manifestly in other countries too – are under attack and also in question. We have to… Continue reading Might Labour be the Force to Renew UK Politics ?
This short poem was written more than ten years ago.
Kenwood is a fine mansion on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath, London. It and its grounds are managed by English Heritage and open to the public. It is a deservedly popular… Continue reading Kenwood in May
Copyright © Rogan Wolf – Poet and Social Worker
In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk
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