Star-crossed

by Ann Drysdale

A poem not found but diligently searched-for.

How am I? The term ‘star-crossed’ springs to mind.
Such states of one’s affairs are often best
Reflected by a literary find;
They’re never quite so neatly re-expressed.
The hope I dreamed of was a dream. Quite so.
I cannot mind my wheel; my fingers ache.
Never give all the heart? I know, I know,
Having just made the selfsame sad mistake.
Love is a universal migraine; true.
Poets are sensitive. They understand.
Now I am facing up to losing you
And I want poetry to hold my hand.
Okay; ’tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved—but only just.

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5
February, 2010

Ann Drysdale was born near Manchester, raised in London, and married in Birmingham. She ran a smallholding and brought up three children on the North York Moors, and now lives in South Wales. She was a journalist for many years, writing, among other things, the longest-running by-line column in the Yorkshire Evening Post. She has won a few prizes and published several books, including two memoirs, Three-three, two-two, five-six and Discussing Wittgenstein. Of her four volumes of poetry from Peterloo, the most recent, Between Dryden and Duffy, appeared in 2005. Her fifth collection, Quaintness and Other Offences, was was published in 2009 by Cinnamon Press .

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