In the 8/19 issue of the New Yorker magazine, there is a poem by Ciaran Carson entitled "Claude Monet, 'The Artist's Garden at Vetheuil,' 1880" The first few lines read:
The poem is a mixture of ideas, not really heart related and ends with:
If you want to read the whole poem, The New Yorker allows access about 3 times a month for free.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/08/19/claude-monet-the-artists-garden-at-vetheuil-1880
Today I thought I'd just take a lie-down, and drift. So here I am listening
To the tick of my mechanical aortic valve-overhearing, rather, the way it flits
In and out of consciousnesses. It's a wonder what goes on below the threshold.
It's quiet up here, just the muted swoosh of the cars on the Antrim Road,
And every so often the shrill of a far-off alarm or the squeal of brakes;
Per Ciaran Carson, the magazine says they are "the author of, most recently, "From There to Here: Selected Poems and Translations." His new collection, "Still Life," is forthcoming in October."The poem is a mixture of ideas, not really heart related and ends with:
IT's beautiful weather, the 30th of March, and tomorrow the clocks go forward.
How strange it is to be lying here listening to whatever it is is going on.
The days are getting longer now, however many of them I have left.
And the pencil I am writing this with, old as it is, will easily outlast their end.
Not often you see an AVR in poetry If you want to read the whole poem, The New Yorker allows access about 3 times a month for free.https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/08/19/claude-monet-the-artists-garden-at-vetheuil-1880
