There are pleasures so ordinary that we barely notice them. They leave no impression worth mentioning, even. Not the leaves but the delicate under-leaves that we’d somehow missed. Not the stranger whom we’ve never met, whom we pass on the walk each morning, but the matched set of off-white-not-quite-ivory-though spaniels that seem to float like two patches of low fog to either side of him. I used to worry about the impression I left on others; and then I really don’t remember which came first: I grew up? I grew tired? Desire had become by then something different from what it had been. More hurricane than tornado, its damage therefore more easily at least prepared against, if not forestalled. That certain gestures don’t so much linger as seem to make a routine of unexpectedly becoming more apparent some moments than at others doesn’t mean we miss them, means there were parts that we loved. I regret almost nothing. I come in peace A lost beast A crown of feathergrass A matching wreath
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The Spring 2022 issue of Poetry London includes a generous selection of new work by our featured author, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, as well as poems by Romalyn Ante, Natalie Linh Bolderston, Gboyega Odubanjo, Oksana Vasyakina, LeAnne Howe, Mona Kareem, and Robert Selby.