A few poems from Harold Pinter and one from me

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To read his poems, is to peer into his soul and hold his hand, while walking in a land that he has stored all his thoughts and asperations, his desires, and afflictions. To read his poetry is to swim in his mind and be taken a float in the lakes of his sarrow, his doubts and his certainty. His wrting is a mirror deep within his energy. This will never fade, and will refract light when understood. (Quickstar)


It is the dead of night,

The long dead look out towards
The new dead
Walking towards them

There is a soft heartbeat
As the dead embrace
Those who are long dead
And those of the new dead
Walking towards them

They cry and they kiss
As they meet again
For the first and last time

Harold Pinter, 2002

God, 1993

God looked into his secret heart
to find a word
To bless the living throng below.

But look and look as he might do
And begging ghosts to live again
But hearing no song in that room
He found with harshly burning pain
He had no blessing to bestow.


Poem (Don’t look…)

Don’t look.
The world’s about to break.

Don’t look.
The world’s about to chuck out all its light
and stuff us in the chokepit of its dark,
That black and fat suffocated place
Where we will kill or die or dance or weep
Or scream of whine or squeak like mice
To renegotiate our starting price.

Harold Pinter

Though to some his work may seem dark and complacent. He told things the way they were to him. He told his story the way that he saw it, and has given us a piece.


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