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Click hereCollective pleasure stays far from
collecting books or sculpture, string
quartets or Elizabethan songs.
It doesn't manifest itself in
late autumn rambles across the moors, grey
mornings unfolding, or the joys
of a pared orange's exact symmetries nor
does it have a call for games of the intellect –
chess players wont receive a hero's welcome.
Somehow, it seems,
collective pleasure goes for rows, drunkenness,
gut reactions and clamour of voices – chanting
abuse at the other party, wild celebrations –
the cup is ours! –
and demagogues twisting their public opinions
into using violence...
It's a cold wind that starts at dawn.
This poem reminds me very nicely of the rewards of being an individual, of the freedom and joy it gives. I like it. :)