The scent of old roses and tobacco
Takes me back.
It’s almost twenty years
Since I last saw you
And our half-hearted love affair goes on.
You left me this:
A hand, half-open, motionless
On a green counterpane.
Enough to build
A few melancholy poems on.
If I had touched you then
One of us might have survived.
I have, for some time now, been posting some of Ian Hamilton’s poems; Epitaph is the fourth in this series. It deals with, I believe, the death of his father from cancer when Hamilton was a young man.
Having read the entire collection of his poems, which are few in number, but each powerfully written, I am personally convinced he is the finest poet of the second half of the 20th century. This is obviously a very audacious assessment; but whether you agree with this or not, I am certain that you will enjoy exploring his oeuvre.
Click here for a list of the other Ian Hamilton poems on the Book of Pain.
For more on Ian Hamilton, I refer you to: his Wikipedia page.
Thank you for reading Ian Hamilton’s ‘Epitaph’. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
Comments © 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved.