Tag: poetry

When I woke again, it was high summer,
the trees in full green leaf, green
on the altars, and you,
beside me, smiling, diffident,
having stopped by
to see if
you might be of assistance.
I loved all that I saw in that waking
and you, being then in the foreground,
could not help but be loved. Love springs
from the heart unasked-for, clings
to the one who stands ready
to bear it. You and I
(when I’ve become more than the end
of a quest, and you
have retreated somewhat, into perspective),
you and I will have learned
what to do with this unforeseen,
blazing, implacable love,
and then we’ll begin.

Heaven, I sometimes think, must be
where I grew up – mid-August,
the raspberries run wild and ripe,
hens scratching in the yard,
the house dim and cool,
red tiles under bare feet;

where, all the long afternoon,
those whom I love and will love
arrive, sleepy, stretch out on the lawn,
washed in the sunlight after the long drive,

and, after, talk late round the kitchen table,
plates pushed aside,
with song and red wine and laughter,
the world set to rights.

I know: what Rosebud was; the chief ingredient of Soylent Green;
Luke’s father’s, Roger Ackroyd’s murderer’s identity –
I’ve read the book, but two of those I’ve not so much as seen.
Thank God there’s still surprise in this reality.

A heart’s an awkward thing to wrap:
the one end softly squashy,
the other gimlet sharp.
I try. The point rips through the paper;
the string slips off the curves. Well.
Here’s my heart, then; you’d better
take it as it is, and know,
at least, what you’re getting.

You couples do not see me, you
who enter laughing, hand in hand,
sip from each other’s drinks, and share
an indecisive dish of olives.

I have my hands full here: fork
in the right; book
in the left. I turn
one-handed in the paper walls
of this, my chambre séparée.

The candle glows; the wine’s
a living garnet. O –

you need not pity me. I dine tonight
with Rupert Hentzau.

We woke to the sound of nothing,
the lack of that forty-day thrum:
the rain had stopped, wind stilled; we rocked
so gently in our coffin-cradle
you might have thought
our parent slept.

I threw the hatch back; saw a square
of clear grey sky; smelt damp air
– and, frightened, shut it out,
needing (I said) to think.
It was warm inside.
Safe there, enclosed in darkness,
accustomed to the swaying floor,
the solid walls and roof,
I’d chosen to forget we had
to touch the ground again.

That night we feasted, sang,
laughed and gave thanks,
snug in our floating box. I crept away,
up to the deck where the birds roosted.
Most slept, but one raven, dark
in the dark shadows, blinked at me
with gold-rimmed eye. I chose her.
Tough claws gripping my fingers, we climbed
up, up to the hatch and that
empty square of sky.

She knew better than I did;
she flew before I was ready
to let her go.
My hand was light without her.
I watched the sky as long as I could bear it;
then, dizzy, I shut the hatch again,
and tried to forget her.