A child is free,
A fire
Smouldering in your arms
To burn your dreams.
(November,
1977)
Rain
More Tuaregs will surely die
Today, tomorrow;
Hollow cattle shudder out of life
Like paper
Scorching, crackling in a flame.
There is a silence.
The rain in Spain, poor Spain,
Falls mainly on the plain.
Once
They used to sing.
Split plains, parched grains, nothing
Shows, grows above the red dust
That blows along despair.
There is a silence.
America, the promised land,
Whose wheatfields lie in marbled chunks,
Hunks of adamantine clay
As dry as bone, as pitiful.
There is a silence.
England’s green and pleasant land
Is thin and fearful,
Yellowed, sear;
Roots will wither, love will die,
Greed stalk through a tearless sky;
There is a silence.
Weep, weep, grey clouds,
Weep here, weep now.
Guatamala, Bangladesh, Afghanistan.
You sicken them;
Too blind with tears of pity
For their hopeless, helpless poverty
You drown them in your love.
In hate drown us.
Drown us that we, grown desperate now,
May with the joy, the wonder of each green, uncurling leaf,
Rain-blessed, grow, too,
In love.
May it rain;
Oh God, may it rain.
(undated 1977?)
Battered Baby
The world was still washing its hands
when Susannah slipped;
her fragile glass, spun on a spring-wet morning,
lifting to other hands that were gentle, kind,
warm as the sway of apple blossom,
to fold around
her shining
whole,
thin and curling,
clear,...
But no, they said, her mother’s come,
she wants her;
and they lifted her back,
the sparkling dulled,
the bubbles drying, smeared,
as the blossoms drifted down
the air.
It’s not for me to decide, said Pilate,
bring me water.
We must have proof of risk.
The world was still washing its hands
when Sussanah slipped.
Behind a dirty window,
tucked with emerald moss,
two mother’s hands, rough as canker,
shook and beat her,
snapped the quiet stem.
Sussanah died in May and the sun was shining.
(post
April, 1977)
Rumours
Mrs. A is throwing stones,
Mrs. B is looking;
Mrs. C tells dreadful tales of
Mrs. D’s foul cooking.
Mrs. E says young Miss F’s
No better than she should be.
Mrs. G says she should know -
She’s Mr. H’s floozy.
Sad Miss I is very prim;
Sour Miss J knows why
And tells Miss K in confidence
(she wouldn’t tell a lie)
That years ago she had a child
By batty Mr. M,
“But don’t you tell another soul,
Except your Mrs. N.”
Her Mrs. N told Mrs. O,
Who quietly told Miss P,
Who told Miss Q and Mrs. R,
But not Miss S or T.
For they were really not quite nice,
Miss S dressed like a man,
Smoked and swore and other things;
There ought to be a ban.
And that Miss T who lives with her
Is really just as queer -
Mrs. U told Mrs. V
She saw her drinking beer.
Of course it’s Mrs. W
Who really makes them cross;
In all the local junketings
She always acts the boss.
Mrs. X keeps to herself,
Is hardly ever seen;
With seven kids she’s just a slut -
Although her washing’s clean.
Mrs. Y says Mrs. Z
Is really very odd;
She tells no tales about her friends
And still believes in God.
(post
April, 1977)
Hallowe'en Hag
He could not do what she had asked,
A poem on a witch,
His prep;
And he came to me to ask
About the dark things of the mind,
About the shaking of the soul,
About a fear-bright October.
And he knew they were not - “Were they? Witches?
Well, you’ve never seen one, have you?
Ever?”
He tried so hard; and fell.
Tears fell. Night
fell.
Brought the dark things of the mind.
And I, watching,
Saw it then,
Clinging to his back with pen-nib claws,
Howling round and round his caverned mind,
Raking wide his red-rimmed eyes,
Tear-torn, hopeless
In their blind and desperate fumbling over
Sharp-gnawed bones of meaningless
Piled obstacles called words.
Marked.
The miserable child was over-looked;
The evil eye flew on him, searched;
The spell despair drew tighter bands
Around his hollow heart...
“She’s hurting me; she’s always hurting me.”
Where is the spell
To wake him in a light of understanding,
To crack the demon fetters of defeat?
A fear-bright October,
A witch behind his shoulder.
She lies behind his eyes
And stirs the dark things of his mind;
She shafts a poisoned thorn
And shakes his soul.
(November,
1977)
So What's All The Fuss About Spring?
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
What’s so special?
A baby rabbit?
Two ears, couple of pairs of legs,
bit of fur
(soft as a whisper of starlight,
grey as a cobweb,
trusting...)
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
What’s so special?
Buds on the trees?
Well, what else do you expect;
leaves have to start somewhere
(flicks of enchanted sunlight,
warm as a baby’s cheek,
tender...)
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
What’s so special?
A flower?
A breakable blob on a stalk;
gone in a day or two
(and a bee in a frenzy,
enfolded by paper-light gaiety
holding the seed,
the promise...)
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
Just a rabbit, some buds and a flower;
so what’s so special?
Only a trusting, a tenderness
and a promise...
(March,
1977)
Village Street By Night
Pull down the dark
And tuck it gentle over the old men’s dreams,
Quiet as turning feathers drifted
On the bone-thin beds of grief.
Tumble the barn owls, cloaked,
From the haunted trees,
Whistling school-boys skimming
The smooth, smooth bannisters of night.
Scatter the stars
Arched over hearts that throb, that sing
And hope to die, dear joy! of love.
Around the children
Fold the cottage walls, old
And safe as dominoes.
Gather the shadows,
Crush the wind like wine to the lips;
The clouds, spin them back with a bubble of laughter;
Silver the stones with a goblet moon
And drink this village night.
(November,
1977)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)