We take photographs of snow falling, but all we capture is the aura of feelings, abstract and ill-defined, the sensations of snow, of falling, of tumbling and dreaming, obscurely. We glimpse childhood in fragments, gleaming, a memory of you standing in the doorway, glances, leaving, coat on, bags packed and ready for denial. The falling
To be original would be to take The path that brought us back past the first song, The greenness of the buds out there along Near branches in the Springtime as they wake Up Springtime in ourselves and the ache Of seasons since so that we long To know the freshness in ourselves as strong
We are all, you might say, waiting for those barbarians even though we lack particulars, even an approximate profile, mug-shot, card-index summation, press cutting. Nothing exists but the vague sense that it should, that our time is up, we have held on too long, making the same points, using the identical words to describe this
There should have been thunder, jagged brilliance of lightning across the city the night the Fulbright Scholar claimed the piece that briefly made the puzzle whole: a hulking Yorkshireman with a gift for words the equal of her own. But the only storm in Cambridge that night was psychic — life not always resembling myth
The sun and the moon and other wonderful objectsmy mind, rushing about, connectsare just there, they’re there, whatever I may think.Why am I here, red-faced, shouting at the sink? Perhaps the world is given only once. It’s certainly odd.How hard I pray for the absence of God!The child’s idea: when dead or asleep we floataround
What magic is this, to elucidate the stars? Dawn chorus erupts with a thousand yarns, a thousand memories, wishes and desires, an avian Arabian Nights furnished before us, loves, losses and the lyrical space between, adventures told with a spectacular orchestral score, imagine if we’d never heard any of this before, we’d be in awe,
The cherry trees all sang On the road to Deptford Strand – A million blossoms wild with hope for a day. And Marlowe blew a kiss, Then he gazed into his hand On the road to Deptford Strand. The lilacs sighed of love On the road to Deptford Strand – Of hours like worlds and
Winter, 2022 I Apartment blocks stand stiffly like Swiss cheese, Pale walls sliced through with holes that let them breathe. Elsewhere a single wall looks wafer thin. The water is unsafe, it breeds disease. The crunch of popping shells unnerves the skin. Faced with this daily diet , people seethe Remembering those laid in shallow
She lies beneath magnificent cherry blossoms, watches the whispering winds of spring, sing, spin, she becomes a child again, full of wonder and awe, dreaming of magic, love and flowers blooming, soon a teenager laughing, lying with her first love, face flushed red with cherry blossom dreams, emerging into her twenties, just married and hopeful,
Last night among his fellow roughs, He plotted, schemed, and swore; An anxious statesman of the Bluffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown, He stands in Charles’s place, Ambassador from Britain’s crown, And type of all her race. Rich, reckless, posh, well-born, well-taught, Bewildered and alone, A heart with leftish instinct fraught,
When I was young, nobody ran, unless, behind them on a dark and lonely road, they felt the breath of some misshapen thing, the aspens quivered and the willows wept; or if they’d spent their bus fare on warm beer, and they were overdue where duty called. Accoutred armies hurtle through our parks and boulevards,
Leaving a bedsit’s fickle gasfire flame, You make it to the corner shop that’s seen Far better days than his fluorescent name, But then his moon-white face appears between The shelves and high glass counters, lush with rows Of Swiss liqueurs, dragées and cigarettes And hangs there patiently as if he knows The types that
There’s a magical muddle that clings to the pagelike mist to a meadow. No help in the hurting, no truth in the light,just haze on the harvest. I’ve cancelled my comeback and chosen insteadto be cloistered in clover. In the blare of the body the spirit lies mutelike a book in a bottle. I’ll hunker
The world, the young woman said, is ruled by old men with hard, brutal faces and an ugly lust for power. Nothing that gym bars or strictures of the personal physician can offer will help them in the end when the dark fog drops to cover the formerly sentient mind, its edicts like arrows that
Wild sea and sky uproot your rest. The coast in its uproarious gloom, with what few trees there are distressed, your kids excited in their room – your world and weather are at war, which scares me, as I know that you’re attracted by the storm. Though happy, you’ve a feeling that being more
1950s I Black as newsprint and round as bowler hats Tall chimneys puff away like cigarettes, Away, away… until the time that lets Them crumble or replaced by council flats. But smoke still tumbles from some chimney tops, A television set glows in a dark Room lit by coal. How long will time let park
Inside us is a dark room where our shame gets tired of waiting. At first we don’t admit it’s there, we don’t do introspection. The trouble starts with dating: so many men prioritise some quirky predilection, some body shape or size. My own turn-on, I hesitate to say, is
The house lights dim again: Willy Loman, Vanya, Lear talk to the dark before their eyes – while you glance sideways at your neighbours, who’ve brought their lovers, husbands, wives to sit beside them (or to occupy their minds). What do they want to see? The play goes on, into its last deciding act. A
It’s too late now to say you are not old, the years gang up on you, they settle down like locusts falling on a field of grain, the rustling noise you hear, that is their sound. How to be old: I’ll help you on the way. Stand straight. Be calm. Pretend you are a tree
World’s stock of afternoons is running short And summer’s light is turning golden brown – It’s time to summon up our winter thoughts Since poetry will always be our sport And images, once mothered, won’t disown Our afternoons, though old, though running short, For in mind’s shadows metaphors hold court And new dreams swarm. We