These walls, stone calligraphies
of almost six thousand years;
predating Sumerian cuneiform,
built on the tablet of geologic time;
pages stacked above the ocean,
stripes of the Céide cliffs
beneath the cover of bogland.
That book reopened,
retelling lives in Neolithic script,
a stone net thrown onto the land.
And now I think of Tom’s new walls,
the limestone boundaries of his fields;
how he has written his lines into this history;
how glorious they stand.
Notable too in this interview, she underlines the importance of poetry in communicating human anguish.
A gap in the hedge
where briars are looping downward
under the weight of grape-like clusters
of fat juicy blackberries ‒
squelching cattle-trodden paths
lead onward to fresh, green, larder-like
half-acres of lush shining grass ‒
choked with cloud
and birdsong sweet with plenty,
among stirrings in the leaf-litter,
momentary alarms;
I step, sinking in wellingtons
in the dung-gummed earth,
into a triangular field
green as the previous,
as secluded within its sycamore,
blackthorn and elder confines.
I stop as I would passing into a new room
and know I can walk the whole country,
east to west, field to field, across this mosaic
with its opulence and endless allure.
Life Long
Still:
my once loved
is standing there
as though left out in the rain
and waiting to be brought in,
ever-present,
a hologram
at the end of the garden.
Still:
my once loved
is standing there
as though left out in the rain
and waiting to be brought in,
ever-present,
a hologram
at the end of the garden.
Still,
and the years have rolled,
I have held her there.
Miley twerks,
Marilyn gathering in her dress,
a galaxy of stars gathered around Bradley,
a sailor kisses a woman in Times Square,
5 soldiers raise a flag at Iwo Jima,
Einstein sticks out his tongue,
a child face down dead on a Turkish beach.
Michelangelo might have carved
the wrinkles on his forehead,
veins on the backs of his hands,
the fingers slender in death,
knuckles, fingernails,
lids shut over spiritless eyes.
The rosary trickling down from
his fingers is an intrusion;
no renaissance here,
Dad is a statue now.
What you’ve never grasped
is your days are flying loose,
pages in the wind,
and you busy about filling them,
never catching them.
Happiness is sunlight
on the pages;
it flies with the days.
.
All of that twentieth century history
went in, piled up;
from childhood, it stacked:
the cold war, Bay of Pigs, coup d’etats,
dictators, famines, invasions,
Vietnam, Congo, Falklands, Belfast, Kosovo;
treaties, broken treaties, military exercises,
nuclear arsenals, on and on
and we got wise
and understood that nations are hungry
and savage;
there were always answers and we knew them
from a young age.
And the great page turned, twentieth to twenty first:
still they came: Darfur, Somalia, Yemen, Afghanistan,
invasions, piracy, terrorist attacks, revolutions
until we know nothing,
and therefore
on it goes.
Trump's recent 'bloodbath' comment continues his pattern of being incendiary. This (not so delicately embedded in his speech-making) stoking of violence, the self-cultivated image of his own greatness, his demanding of loyalty to himself, the outrageous claims of his abilities to rid the world of ongoing problems, his narcissism are all so reminiscent of other dictators. Add that to his fondness of autocrats:
my question is how, with all the knowledge of history available to us, do we allow presidents, the people with the greatest potential to do damage, to act outside the checks and balances everyone else is subject to?
Bloodbath
Loyalty to a man or a country, even an organization
may lead to a bloodbath;
loyalty to humanity would not.
Humanity appeals;
the others order;
which, would you say, has its roots in freedom?
Plump juicy blackberries:
that’s where the Summer went.
Rosy-cheeked apples, damsons:
-- energy neither created nor destroyed --
Summer’s sun packaged for Winter’s want.
September, we stretched across the hedges,
beat the birds to the berries,
and filled our cans. All went into the pot;
the kitchen filled with clouds of steam;
the windows, opaque,
cut us off from the world.
Fresh bread thickly sliced and buttered,
slathered in blackberry jam
still warm and flowing; we ate greedily
while the jars, in ranks,
stood prepared to face the darker months.
Young beauty settled on your face,
extended its wings a moment,
then flew.
The skin over your bones slackened,
took the shape of your humours;
there was no concealing.
Finally, life, like traffic
over the snow-white landscape of beauty,
is your billboard to the world.
This poem has been with me for years in one shape or another. I've posted more than one effort in the past, but was never convinced. All versions go on display, but, like a photographer's work, there'll always be one photograph that has the edge; I think this has the atmosphere I've been searching for. There's a good chance I won't look back at this for a while in case I meet disappointment. Come another book though, I'll have to weigh it up.
Behind the Glass
Every day, sitting at her window,
looking out onto the street of her life,
empty now.
Her face, just her face, hanging
behind the glass;
a room untroubled by sunlight;
the darkness of a Rembrandt portrait
and wearing old age like a mask.
She's waiting for the street’s stories
but the street has nothing to say;
she continues, daily
staring into the space where her life was.
She fires words
spiky as hail;
I shoot them down;
they’re unwelcome in my heaven.
But the same words go off
over and over;
some see you out,
shovel in the clay.
Truth is words are clouds;
I don’t shoot them;
I shoot at them.
