In the recently released Rabbit 14 (a journal for non-fiction poetry) Peter Minter has written one of those poems that is small but intense.

Like other good poems, Nothing Satisfies is quintessentially circular, and as palpable as an actual experience. This poem, despite the title, totally satisfies.


Nothing Satisfies


The extraordinary trickles, just as expected.

As far as language goes, the northern coast of Massachusetts

looks magical, then something happens and one page

is no longer enough. I walk over and turn off the light.


It’s all so hopeless. Everything has its shadow,

the constraints desperately Audenesque.

I try to listen to Van Morrison, and for a while

I think I’m going to make it, get lost in the lounge room.


But it’s always now or never, nothing on TV,

the possible is terrible, the terrible so plain.

I try the radio, then another book, but my heart is restless

as a hive, dilatory and coronal, no pain.


Oracles are round, none the wise, the cornucopia

left on hold. I am separated by need.


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