With my hands over my ears
I try to imagine what this world
must seem like to the deaf.
And with my hands covering my eyes
I try to imagine this world
would seem like to the blind.
But this is not even near the truth.
The deaf and the blind can govern
more easily than this,
having greater wonders at the elements
and at night their demons sleep,
kept intact and at a distance.
Yet for all that I couldn't imagine
my life without sound, the rushing
of rivers, the tap of the rain that ushers
in another winter,
or without the sight of snow falling,
white on white colouring everything.
I am far too self absorbed to imagine
anything different than this, this
that gives warmths and no seclusions.
I switch the TV on, its blandness
assuming nothing but its own importance,
the last sight and sound that need be seen,
the essence of nothingness
that calibrates our humours,
blinking its arrogance,
unaware of the world's terrors
affirming, now, my ignorance.
If you've any comments on his poems, John Cornwall
would be pleased to hear from you.