Tag: Poetry

Precious 10 minutes

The GP stands at the door of his room,
shakes my hand, asks me how I am.
I always smile and say fine, except for…
this niggling problem
or I’m just here for a checkup
or a repeat prescription
or something.
He listens.
He’s a cautious man,
gets me tested
just in case: ‘Let’s be sure.’
He sounds me out about an ongoing condition:
if I can live with it
he can live with it.
‘As long as you can do the things
you want to do.’
He knows I’m a worrier.
I don’t feel rushed.
It’s a conversation.
It all seems as it should be.
Hamish Whyte



	


	
	






	
	

		
An ode from Horace
	


	

		
Ode I. 11


HORACE

TRANSLATED BY BURTON RAFFEL


Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate,


Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers


In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.


This could be our last winter, it could be many


More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks:


Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines


And forget about hope. Time goes running, even


As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair.