The little goats like my mouth and fingers,
and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,
pushes her mouth forward to my mouth, so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth, and the bristle-whiskers,
and then she kisses me, though I know it doesn’t mean “kiss,”
then leans her head way back, arcing her spine, goat yoga, all pleasure and greeting and then good-natured indifference: she loves me,
she likes me a lot, she takes interest in me, she doesn’t know me at all or need to, having thus acknowledged me. Though I am all happiness,
since I have been welcomed by the field’s small envoy, and the splayed hoof, fragrant with soil, has rested on the fence board beside my hand.
Mark Doty (born 1953)

I spent the weekend at the Ledbury Poetry Festival, one of the largest and most exciting festivals of its kind. As usual, there was the mixture of surprising, moving, hilarious and, of course, the not-to-my-taste; but, even though occasional disappointing readings can feel a bit of a wasted opportunity (Ledbury runs concurrent events, so one always wonders whether something one’s missing might have been life-changing or -affirming), it’s good to hear a range of poetry and figure out exactly what does (or doesn’t) make it work.

One of the highlights, for me, was hearing Mark Doty read this poem. It’s set at a goat farm in California, but it reminds me of the little pygmy goats who live beside Binsey Church. I like the joy of it: simultaneously complicated (the goat’s indifference could be a dampener) and entirely simple (sharing a moment doesn’t need to be self-conscious in order to be meaningful).