The Wind


The wind does not exist to do your bidding,

Throw a kite into my arms and I will tear it to shreds


I am in the lungs of the stumbling climber, gasping for breath on the Goatfell ridge,

Below the far wide sky,

Above the endless sea.


I am the rhythm in the Poet’s voice,

As he struggles to control the overflowing words,

And phrases,

And twists,

And turns

But I can also be found in the harsh words of a scorned lover, as they threaten revenge.

At weekends, I am in your stuttered obscenities as you reach a state of ecstasy, trembling in her bangle covered arms


During 1994, I could be found in the breath of a Rwandan child, crying out at the grave of its Mother,

“Why did you leave me alone?”

Oh, I am many things.


Sometimes, I am the angry wind that fights with the rain in the black of night,

And, quite often, you tell me that I exist merely to steal the tiles from your roof, again

At dawn, I am the soft wind that raises the Fulmar’s wing above the rising, breaking wave

And, after years of struggle, I am the breath of enlightenment that issues from the nose of the meditator as he sits in Satori.


And I will be in your mouth-hot and stale-on the day you die,

But you… [Laughs]

You will not remember that




In the enclosed video I am performing the poem at 8 minutes 55 seconds in. The recording is unfortunately very dark.



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