He was spark out, but at noon, on the beach,
entertained the thought that a fly might land
on a tingle of nerves, just beyond reach.
Save him connecting his brain to his hand.
Donkeys down on the shore were refugees
or latter-day saints, and along Pine Walk
pines grew obliquely, charmed by the salt breeze.
Wax-coated needles wouldn't sink. Loose talk.
On the prom, retired expatriates swarmed
around shrinkwrapped heaps of the Daily Mail.
Waves were never the tide but ripples, spawned
by moon-coloured ships of war. The sun's nail
by dusk - rusty, blunt - useless against ice.
For supper he ate the sleep from his eyes.
(to Contents)
.
The Soul Mine by Gwyneth Lewis
The guidebook directed us to a nunnery
where no one spoke English.
Nearby, a quarry
was blasting fro granite,
working to free
buildings and walls from the rockery
of rubble. In a dark chapel
a nun, almost silent, mined the air
making a statue of breathing and prayer.
Heroic sisters! They are the quarry
of a spirit that hunts them.
Love is predatory,
best met with stillness
and passivity.
The smashed heart is its own safety.
Water flows, soft, from the rock.
Minds and minerals submit to their loads:
cold stones that women kiss explode.
(to Contents)
.
where no one spoke English.
Nearby, a quarry
was blasting fro granite,
working to free
buildings and walls from the rockery
of rubble. In a dark chapel
a nun, almost silent, mined the air
making a statue of breathing and prayer.
Heroic sisters! They are the quarry
of a spirit that hunts them.
Love is predatory,
best met with stillness
and passivity.
The smashed heart is its own safety.
Water flows, soft, from the rock.
Minds and minerals submit to their loads:
cold stones that women kiss explode.
(to Contents)
.
I'm My Own Mother, Now by Stella Chipasula
Mother, I am mothering you now;
Alone, I bear the burden of continuity.
Inside me, you are coiled
like a hard question without an answer.
On the far bank of the river
you sit silently, your mouth shut,
watching me struggle with this bundle
that grows like a giant seed, in me.
In your closed fist you hide
the riddles of the fruit or clay child
you told before you turned your back
and walked, fading, into the mist.
But, mother, I am mothering you now;
new generations pass through my blood,
and I bear you proudly on my back
where you are no longer a question.
(to Contents)
.
Alone, I bear the burden of continuity.
Inside me, you are coiled
like a hard question without an answer.
On the far bank of the river
you sit silently, your mouth shut,
watching me struggle with this bundle
that grows like a giant seed, in me.
In your closed fist you hide
the riddles of the fruit or clay child
you told before you turned your back
and walked, fading, into the mist.
But, mother, I am mothering you now;
new generations pass through my blood,
and I bear you proudly on my back
where you are no longer a question.
(to Contents)
.
My Head is Immense by Charles Nokan
My head is immense
I have a toad's eyes
A horn stands on the nape of my neck
But a magical music surges
from me.
What tree exhales such rare
perfume?
Dark beauty, how can you spring
from a toad's wallow? How can you
flow from lonely ugliness?
You who took on, you think
that the voice of my instrument
buys my freedom, that I am fluidity, thought
which flies.
No, there is nothing in me
but a pool of sadness.
(to Contents)
.
I have a toad's eyes
A horn stands on the nape of my neck
But a magical music surges
from me.
What tree exhales such rare
perfume?
Dark beauty, how can you spring
from a toad's wallow? How can you
flow from lonely ugliness?
You who took on, you think
that the voice of my instrument
buys my freedom, that I am fluidity, thought
which flies.
No, there is nothing in me
but a pool of sadness.
(to Contents)
.
Wulf (anon.)
Prey, it's as if my people have been handed prey.
They'll tear him to pieces if he comes with a troop.
O, we are apart.
Wulf is on one island, I on another,
a fastness that land, a fen prison.
Fierce men roam there, on that island;
they'll tear him to pieces if he comes with a troop.
O, we are apart.
How I have grieved for my Wulf's wide wanderings.
When rain slapped the earth and I sat apart weeping,
when the bold warrior wrapped his arms about me,
I seethed with desire and yet with such hatred.
Wulf, my Wulf, my yearning for you
and your seldom coming have caused my sickness,
my mourning heart, not mere starvation.
Can you hear, Eadwacer? Wulf will spirit
our pitiful whelp to the woods.
Men easily savage what was never secure,
our song together.
(Anglo-Saxon; translated by Kevin Crossley-Holland)
(to Contents)
.
They'll tear him to pieces if he comes with a troop.
O, we are apart.
Wulf is on one island, I on another,
a fastness that land, a fen prison.
Fierce men roam there, on that island;
they'll tear him to pieces if he comes with a troop.
O, we are apart.
How I have grieved for my Wulf's wide wanderings.
When rain slapped the earth and I sat apart weeping,
when the bold warrior wrapped his arms about me,
I seethed with desire and yet with such hatred.
Wulf, my Wulf, my yearning for you
and your seldom coming have caused my sickness,
my mourning heart, not mere starvation.
Can you hear, Eadwacer? Wulf will spirit
our pitiful whelp to the woods.
Men easily savage what was never secure,
our song together.
(Anglo-Saxon; translated by Kevin Crossley-Holland)
(to Contents)
.
from Approaches to How They Behave by WS Graham
1
What does it matter if the words
I choose, in the order I choose them in,
Go out into a silence I know
Nothing about, there to be let
In and entertained and charmed
Out of their master's orders? And yet
I would like to see where they go
And how without me they behave.
4
Before I know it they are out
Afloat in the head which freezes them.
Then I suppose I take the best
Away and leave the others arranged
Like floating bergs to sink a convoy.
8
And what are you supposed to say
I asked a new word but it kept mum.
I had secretly admired always
What I thought it was here for.
But i was wrong when I looked it up
Between the painted boards. It said
Something it was never very likely
I could fit into a poem in my life.
10
Backwards the poem's just as good.
We human angels as we read
Read back as we gobble the words up.
Allowing the poem to represent
A recognizable landscape
Sprouting green up or letting green
Wit hall its weight of love hang
to gravity's sweet affection,
Arse-versa it is the same object,
Even although the last word seems
To have sung first, or the breakfast lark
Sings up from the bottom of the sea.
14
Is the word? Yes Yes. But I hear
A sound without words from another
Person I can't see at my elbow.
A sigh to be proud of. You? Me?
15
Having to construct the silence first
To speak out on I realise
The silence even itself floats
At my ear-side with a character
I have not met before. Hello
Hello I shout but that silence
Floats steady, will not be marked
By an off-hand shout. For some reason
It refuses to be broken now
By what I thought was worth saying.
If I wait a while, if I look out
At the heavy greedy rooks on the wall
It will disperse. Now I construct
A new silence I hope to break.
(to Contents)
.
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