The pause at the turn, however infinitesimal,
Is there to ensure we do not run ahead
Of the heartbeat, the knowledge in the blood
That will not be hurried beyond a present good
Before it has fed on it. Where are you going
And towards what beyond, asks the pulsation
To which everything is bound: time to return
To the paced-out path for those who raced it.
Charles Tomlinsons most recent volumes are Selected Poems (New Directions) and Jubilation (Oxford)
more from this author
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 14 March 1996, on page 31
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