Last week, I posted a short essay entitled Why no one gets to push poetry around. I have been delighted by the response the piece received, with a number of readers writing to express appreciation.
Among those messages was one from Malcolm Guite that links directly to the irrepressibility of poetry. I share it here for your enjoyment, and with Malcolm’s permission:
Thanks for your recent essay Andrew, full of so many pungent and memorable phrases. Some of the things you said reminded me of a time when I was wrongly refused admission to the United States and had to return to England without giving the keynote at a conference. In the airport lobby for my return flight, not wanting to leave the conference with nothing from me, I wrote this little sonnet to be read at the conference in my absence:
A Little Contraband
They stopped and turned my body at the border,
Denied me entry, kept me from my friends,
But there are truths that countermand their order,
'There's a divinity that shapes our ends'.
For even as I'm turned back and restricted,
My thoughts are flying free across the line,
Careless of any penalties inflicted,
My poetry makes free of all that's mine.
They held the guns but I held all the cards,
The Jack of Hearts was on my saviour’s sleeve,
They were too late to stop this flow of words,
And poetry snuck past without their leave.
This sonnet stands for me, right where you stand
My gift to you - a little contraband.
(Photo of Malcolm Guite: (c) Lancia E. Smith and used with kind permission).
What a wonderful “challenge and response” from you both. Thank you, Andrew and thank you. Malcolm!!
Lovely! And, oh-so-timely, as I'm preparing a lecture on "temporary visitors" to the U.S. for my Immigration Law class tomorrow. Oh, the playfulness of language!