My Great Sensitivity

by Darryl Price



I'm mucked. No one is going to discover my poems

in a locked away desk drawer somewhere. I remember how it feels

to be knocked out by someone standing next to me in a

simple white dress. This isn't anything you can do anything


about in this lifetime. You can always pretend to be in love

because you're bored or it's the next dot to connect, but the

real thing is like a huge magnet that works only on you;

that can't be escaped from. You'll just have to jump towards it 


all the moments in your life, every minute. Here let me put

it another way for you—you can't be glad to be alive

without sharing that feeling in the presence of the

one you want to love. Sharing's the happy result. It comes


and you can't stop it, you need to feel it all the way home

again to the end. But back onto the poetry thing. I  now

realize that I've been speaking directly to Children to come, 

who'll pick up on the hum inside these words like nothing else.


They'll make good sense of it, know how to use it without being

told a fairy tale. They'll use it to construct their own

mythologies. To make it rain. Walk over to the moon.

To bring all poems back to life. To eat from dripping fruit.








Go Tell the Ghost


in the little yellow

rain coat to knock

it off. You might

not be heard tonight,

but you will be

seen. I promise you that.

Or  don't. Each adventure

comes with its own particular

doors and windows. That's

the nature of any

man-eating flower, and

when it comes down

to it, they all

are, this doesn't stop

anything from happening, but

maybe that's my point--

you'll still welcome dreams

in you, I'll still

write you many poem postcards.