A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

Dave!

Here's the poet himself reading 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree'

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLlcvQg9i6c

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

B00!

Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Dave!

^ Probably my favourite poem

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfOxdZfo0gs

B00!

Forgiving the Darkness
BY ALICE B. FOGEL

Darkness is not a death, does not obliterate,
will not bury you or take your breath away.
Darkness will not erase you the way it erases day with night
because darkness is not the clock but merely the time
falling away from the clock's circular face.
Darkness is not the loss but the thing misplaced,
not the hammer but the nail in its curved emergence
from wood's grasp, not the storm's insurgence
but the limbs broken off from their miraculous
suspension in a storm out far, beyond us.
Darkness is not about hearts, imperfect as they are,
but what leaks through their incorrigible doors, not the stars
but the glissade or glide of their dust.
Darkness no longer shields the hunters' musk
in search of you, or turns you to animal prey,
it is only a measure of weight or days.
Not something without a beginning or an end,
it is not even—especially not—an end.
Nor is it vertigo, nor the whole, but merely a piece.
No, darkness is but a ghost of an idea, the least
remembered, most estranged prayer, and your fear
but a lingering, limbic fear torn from shreds of forgotten years.
Only that much is clear.

feargale

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

- Carol Ann Duffy.

mud

Night is my sister, and how deep in love,
How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore,
There to be fretted by the drag and shove
At the tide's edge, I lie—these things and more:
Whose arm alone between me and the sand,
Whose voice alone, whose pitiful breath brought near,
Could thaw these nostrils and unlock this hand,
She could advise you, should you care to hear.
Small chance, however, in a storm so black,
A man will leave his friendly fire and snug
For a drowned woman's sake, and bring her back
To drip and scatter shells upon the rug.
No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,
Watches beside me in this windy place.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Lady Chatterton

For the weekend that's in it........

Meeting Point

Time was away and somewhere else,
There were two glasses and two chairs
And two people with the one pulse
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs):
Time was away and somewhere else.

And they were neither up nor down;
The stream’s music did not stop
Flowing through heather, limpid brown,
Although they sat in a coffee shop
And they were neither up nor down.

The bell was silent in the air
Holding its inverted poise—
Between the clang and clang a flower,
A brazen calyx of no noise:
The bell was silent in the air.

The camels crossed the miles of sand
That stretched around the cups and plates;
The desert was their own, they planned
To portion out the stars and dates:
The camels crossed the miles of sand.

Time was away and somewhere else.
The waiter did not come, the clock
Forgot them and the radio waltz
Came out like water from a rock:
Time was away and somewhere else.

Her fingers flicked away the ash
That bloomed again in tropic trees:
Not caring if the markets crash
When they had forests such as these,
Her fingers flicked away the ash.

God or whatever means the Good
Be praised that time can stop like this,
That what the heart has understood
Can verify in the body’s peace
God or whatever means the Good.

Time was away and she was here
And life no longer what it was,
The bell was silent in the air
And all the room one glow because
Time was away and she was here

Louis MacNeice

donegal_man

To My Valentine

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oathes,
That's how you're loved by me.



Ogden Nash

feargale

To Helen

Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy-Land!

- Edgar Allan Poe.

marienbad

Progress

They say that for years Belfast was backwards
and it’s great now to see some progress.
So I guess we can look forward to taking boxes
from the earth. I guess that ambulances
will leave the dying back amidst the rubble
to be explosively healed. Given time,
one hundred thousand particles of glass
will create impossible patterns in the air
before coalescing into the clarity
of a window. Through which, a reassembled head
will look out and admire the shy young man
taking his bomb from the building and driving home

Alan Gillis

carolmon

Just found this thread today.....love it, some fantastic poems

hope it's ok to link to spoken poetry cos I'm finding it my favourite genre at the moment
there's some amazing exciting raw writing and performances online

I love this piece OCD by Neil Hilborn

it perfectly captures the relief and joy of finding somebody who loves you in all your quirks and madness, and the pain when it proves too much to live with

hope you enjoy

Lady Chatterton

Portrait of a Child

Unconscious of amused and tolerant eyes,
He sits among his scattered dreams, and plays.
True to no one thing long; running for praise
With something less than half begun. He tries
To build his blocks against the furthest skies.
They fall; his soldiers stumble; bet he stays
And plans and struts and laughs at fresh dismays,
Too confident and busy to be wise.

His toys are towns and temples: his commands
Bring forth vast armies trembling at his nod.
He shapes and shatters with impartial hands.
And, in his crude and tireless play, I see
The savage, the creator, and the god:
All that man was and all he hopes to be.

Louis Untermeyer

mud

FIRST FIG
MY candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends–
It gives a lovely light!
- Edna St Vincent Millay.

feargale

An Arab's Farewell to his Horse

MY beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed-
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind-
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold-
Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell! -thou'rt sold, my steed-thou'rt sold!

Farewell! those free untired limbs, full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home-from all of these, my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light:

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood, that is in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be-
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn-
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return! -alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gath'ring tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirâge appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And, sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
'It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink! '

When last I saw thee drink! -away! the fevered dream is o'er-
I could not live a day, and know, that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains!

- Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

marienbad

Death of an Irishwoman

Ignorant, in the sense
she ate monotonous food
and thought the world was flat,
and pagan, in the sense
she knew the things that moved
at night were neither dogs nor cats
but púcas and darkfaced men,
she nevertheless had fierce pride.
But sentenced in the end
to eat thin diminishing porridge
in a stone-cold kitchen
she clenched her brittle hands
around a world
she could not understand.
I loved her from the day she died.
She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a card game where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child’s purse, full of useless things.

Michael Hartnett

Swiper the fox

marienbad wrote: »

Death of an Irishwoman

Ignorant, in the sense
she ate monotonous food
and thought the world was flat,
and pagan, in the sense
she knew the things that moved
at night were neither dogs nor cats
but púcas and darkfaced men,
she nevertheless had fierce pride.
But sentenced in the end
to eat thin diminishing porridge
in a stone-cold kitchen
she clenched her brittle hands
around a world
she could not understand.
I loved her from the day she died.
She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a card game where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child’s purse, full of useless things.

Michael Hartnett

What's a poem, unbelievable. I'm pretty sure I posted that here before but you could never read that enough times.

marienbad

Swiper the fox wrote: »

What's a poem, unbelievable. I'm pretty sure I posted that here before but you could never read that enough times.

I have always had a soft spot for Michael Hartnett , from my part of the country . Still very underrated

Lady Chatterton

The Mistake

With the mistake your life goes in reverse.
Now you can see exactly what you did
Wrong yesterday and wrong the day before
And each mistake leads back to something worse

And every nuance of your hypocrisy
Towards yourself, and every excuse
Stands solidly on the perspective lines
And there is perfect visibility.

What an enlightenment. The colonnade
Rolls past on either side. You needn't move.
The statues of your errors brush your sleeve.
You watch the tale turn back — and you're dismayed.

And this dismay at this, this big mistake
Is made worse by the sight of all those who
Knew all along where these mistakes would lead —
Those frozen friends who watched the crisis break.

Why didn't they say? Oh, but they did indeed —
Said with a murmur when the time was wrong
Or by a mild refusal to assent
Or told you plainly but you would not heed.

Yes, you can hear them now. It hurts. It's worse
Than any sneer from any enemy.
Take this dismay. Lay claim to this mistake.
Look straight along the lines of this reverse.”

James Fenton

Lady Chatterton

Atlas

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.

U.A. Fanthorpe

barney4001

RENDEZOUS






In a quaint old chateau garden
stood a shepherdess of carven stone
and over by the sleeping fountain
stood a little shepherd all alone
but when moonlight floods the alleys
and the nightingale sings all night through
they waken and they meet together
in a sentimental rendezvous
ah,ma belle,at last we meet!
Oshepherd mine,speak lower i entreat
theres none to hear ,my own,my sweet!
how the nightingale above
is singing dearest,of our love!
will you dance with me my love?
softly plays moonlight fountain
making music in the lonly spot


as the shephedess and shepherd mingle
in the places of an old gavotte
and the little marble cupid
laughs to see the lovers dancing so
and keeping to the quaint old measure
he is beating with his broken bow!
and now the night is still
the fountain waves into silince
the bird has ceased her trill
the shepherds pair can murmer what they will
when one oclock is tolled
their hour of magic life is over their arms must now unfold
and love turns marble cold
through the garden goes the shepherd
stepping ever where the shadows fall
his shepherdress is left all lonely
on her little marble pedestal
and the gardener on the morrow
passes by the two and never knows
the little shepherd now is holding fast
the sherpherdess'smarble rose

barney4001

The Ballad of the Tinker’s Daughter
by Sigerson Clifford

When rooks ripped home at eventide and trees pegged their shadows to the ground
The tinkers came to Carhan Bridge and camped beside the Famine mound.
With long-eared ass and bony horse and with blue-wheeled cart and caravan
And she the fairest of them all the daughter of the tinker clan.

O the sun flamed in her red, red hair and in her eyes there were stars of mirth
Her body held the willow’s grace and her feet scarce touched the springing earth.
The night spread its star-tasseled shawls; the river gossiped to her stones
She sat beside the camping fire and she sang the songs the tinker owns.

All the songs as old as turning wheels and sweet as the bird-throats after rain
Deep wisdom of the wild wet earth; the pain of joy, the joy of pain.
A farmer going by the road to tend his cattle in the byre
He saw her like some fairy queen between the river and the fire.

And her beauty stirred his brooding blood; her magic mounted all in his head.
He stole her from the tinker clan and on the morrow they were wed.
And when the sunlight swamped the hills and bird-song drowned the river’s bells
The tinkers quenched their hazel fires and climbed the pallid road to Kells.

It was from her house she watched them fade and vanish in the yellow furze
A cold wind blew across the sun and it silenced all the singing birds.
She saw the months run on and on, she saw the river fret and foam
At break of day the roosters called; at dim of dusk the cows came home.

The crickets strummed their heated harps in hidden halls all behind the hob
And they told of distant waterways where the black moorhens dive and bob
And shoot the glassy bubbles up to smash their windows on the stones
And brown trout hide their spots of gold among the river’s pebbled bones.

And too the ebbing sea that flung a net of sound all about the stars,
It set strange hills dancing in her dreams and it meshed her to the wandering cars.
She stole out from her sleeping man; she fled the fields that tied her down
Her face moved towards the rising sun; her back was to the tired town.

And she climbed the pallid road to Kells against the hill and all against the wind
In Glenbeigh of the mountain-streams she came upon her tinker-kind.
They bedded her between the wheels and there her son was born
She heard the tinker-woman’s praise before she died that morn.

Now the years flew by like frightened birds that spill a feather and then are gone
The farmer walked his weedful fields and he made the tinkers travel on.
No more they camped by Carhan Bridge or coaxed their fires to fragrant flame
They saw him with his dog and his gun; they spat and cursed his name.

And when May hid the hawthorn trees with stars she stole from out the skies
There came a barefoot tinker lad with red, red hair and laughing eyes.
He left the road, he crossed the fields; the farmer shot him in the side
The smile went from his twisting lips; he told his name and died.

And that evening when the neighbours came they found the son there upon the floor
They saw the farmer swinging low between the window and the door.
They placed the son upon a cart and they cut the swaying farmer down
They swear a tinker woman came with them all the way to town.

And the sun flamed in her red, red hair and in her eyes there danced stars of mirth
Her body held the willow’s grace and her feet scarced touched the springing earth.
They buried them in Keelvarnogue and eyes were moist and lips were wan
And when the mound was patted down the tinker maid was gone.

barney4001

THE TRAMP
In a lonely part of Ireland,near the town of Mullingar
We were gathered in the evening,in a little village bar
Through the door there came a stranger,just a tramp
he seemed to be
In his face the sign of hunger,almost anyone could see
But he brought a breath of summer,as he slowly wandered in
Dressed in rags that someone gave him,and the boots
now worn so thin
Someones son my mind was thinking,someone fallen
by the way
Or perhaps a long lost father,who had seen a better day


Could i join you for a minute,just before i go my way
In a voice as sweet as music,mindful of a summer day
I have wandered o'er the moorland ,seen the rising of
the sun,And my poor old feet are weary ,lifes hard battle
must be won
To a seat i saw him totter,heard the whisper of a sigh,
Then i saw the old face brighted,with a twink.e in the eye
Lonely there he sat and listened,to the stories that were told
Someones son or father ,who had wandered from the fold


Surely there must be a story,hidden somewhere in the
breast,
Of a tramp who roams the moorland,something different
from the rest
As i made my wayto join him,something told me
he was glad
Folk around me gazed in wonder,some they even
thought me mad
Thank you sir,i heard him saying
Lonlinesscan bring a chill
Maybe i should tell a story
Though with tears my eyesthey fill
In my youth i was an artist,painted pictures by the score
Then one day i found an angel,married her in Annaghmore

I was happy with my ,sunshine came our way
And eack night we knelt together,just to meditate and pray
But a fhief he came and stle her ,took the flower I
cherished rare,
Isn,t there a god in heaven to protect a life so fair
Did you ever lose a fortune,did you lose your only friend
Did the sunshine never bless you,nor the lonely not bend
Did you ever see the finger,pointed at you all the day
Broken hearts are never mended,in this hard and cruel way

I left home with all its sadness,left the place where i
was born
Made the sky my onlt blanket,and my friend a
sundecked morn
When they told me she was dying,even after all
the years
Like a baby i was crying,finding solace in my tears
To the place where she is lying,every year i
make my way
And i place a wreath of roses, on that brown and
sacred clay
Roses plucked from out the hedgerows,but she seen
them just the same
And i know she hears me whisper,as i quietly breathe
her name

You may ask why i remember,why she's always in
my dreams
But true love is ne'er forgotten,and a fond smile
always beams
I forgave and granted pardon,even in my prayers i say
That a souls not lost to heaven,just for erring
on the way
Summer brings its gladness,and the birds
sing high above
Just to bring me consolation,an an atmosphere
of love
But a tramp in lonely exilemstill within his native land
Must keep trying,just keep trying,only god can understand

Thank you, sir, for all your goodness,i must now be on
my way
I have many miles to wander,ere i meditate and pray
God alone now brings me comfort,only he can give
me peace
Till this worldshall mark me absent,ans all worry
it shall cease
In a lonely part od Ireland,near the town of Mullingar
We were gathered in the evening ,in a little village bar,
Through the door there passed a stranger,just a tramp
he seemed to be
In his face the sign of heaven ,almost anyone could see

Lady Chatterton

Paris

A table for two will scarcely seat

The pair of us! All the people we have been

Are here as guests, strategically deployed

As to who will go best with whom.

A convent girl, a crashing bore, the couple


Who aren’t quite all they seem.

A last shrimp curls and winces on your plate

Like an embryo. “Is that a little overdone?”

And these country faces at the window

That were once our own. They study the menu,


Smile faintly, and are gone.

Chicken Marengo! It’s a far cry from the Moy.

“There’s no such person as St Christopher,

Father Talbot gave it out at Mass.

Same as there’s no such place as Limbo.”


The world’s less simple for being travelled,

Though. In each fresh, neutral place

Where our differences might have been settled

There were men sitting down to talk of peace

Who began with the shape of the table.

Paul Muldoon

Lady Chatterton

This is one of the first poems I learned at school......and all these years later I still love it ............ I often find myself reciting it like a prayer.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Lady Chatterton

Happy International Women's Day


Postcards

At first I sent you a postcard
From every city I went to.
Grüsse aus Bath, aus Birmingham,
Aus Rotterdam, aus Tel Aviv.
Mit Liebe. Cards from you arrived
In English, with many commas.
Hope, you're fine and still alive,
Says one from Hong Kong. By that time
We weren't writing quite as often.

Now we're nearly nine years away
From the lake and the blue mountains,
And the room with the balcony,
But the heat and light of those days
Can reach this far from time to time.
Your latest was from Senegal,
Mine from Helsinki. I don't know
If we'll meet again. Be happy.
If you hear this, send a postcard.

Wendy Cope

Advice to Myself

Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.

Louise Erdich

Lady Chatterton

An Unseen

I watched love leave, turn, wave, want not to go,
depart, return;
late spring, a warm slow blue of air, old-new.
Love was here; not; missing, love was there;
each look, first, last.

Down the quiet road, away, away, towards
the dying time,
love went, brave soldier, the song dwindling;
walked to the edge of absence; all moments going,
gone; bells through rain

to fall on the carved names of the lost.
I saw love's child uttered,
unborn, only by rain, then and now, all future
past, an unseen. Has forever been then? Yes,
forever has been.

Carol Ann Duffy

Lady Chatterton

The Soul Kisses Goodbye

I am the soul
who leaves your body
but at the door comes back
to kiss you once
then lonely, comes back
again and again,
my grief, jagged petals falling
on the floor of your mouth
that was always mine.

Again and again, I turn
to trawl the water caves
of your mind
where your lovers
have often drowned
trying, one last time, to catch
all those thoughts
you so assuredly pouched
in your eyes now fallen
to a desperate close.

Twice, three times
I become,
where the devil of pain
tries to dig its claws,
an angel at rest
on shoulders -
a definite breeze
cooling down the heat
of your people's loss.

They lift their heads
from the side of your bed
gone suddenly cold
and feel me kissing
your body goodbye,
over and over -
you who harboured me
so well in life
with love.

Enda Wyley

feargale

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on

- Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

Harry Angstrom

A Book

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

Emily Dickinson