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Best Famous Elizabeth Jennings Poems

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by Elizabeth Jennings | |

Friday

 We nailed the hands long ago,
Wove the thorns, took up the scourge and shouted
For excitement's sake, we stood at the dusty edge
Of the pebbled path and watched the extreme of pain.
But one or two prayed, one or two Were silent, shocked, stood back And remembered remnants of words, a new vision, The cross is up with its crying victim, the clouds Cover the sun, we learn a new way to lose What we did not know we had Until this bleak and sacrificial day, Until we turned from our bad Past and knelt and cried out our dismay, The dice still clicking, the voices dying away.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

Answers

 Answers


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

Answers

 Why did you travel?
Because the house was cold.
Why did you travel? Because it is what I have always done between sunset and sunrise.
What did you wear? I wore a blue suit, a white shirt, yellow tie, and yellow socks.
What did you wear? I wore nothing.
A scarf of pain kept me warm.
Who did you sleep with? I slept with a different woman each night.
Who did you sleep with? I slept alone.
I have always slept alone.
Why did you lie to me? I always thought I told the truth.
Why did you lie to me? Because the truth lies like nothing else and I love the truth.
Why are you going? Because nothing means much to me anymore.
Why are you going? I don't know.
I have never known.
How long shall I wait for you? Do not wait for me.
I am tired and I want to lie down.
Are you tired and do you want to lie down? Yes, I am tired and I want to lie down.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

Delay

 The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago.
The light that now Glitters up there my eyes may never see, And so the time lag teases me with how Love that loves now may not reach me until Its first desire is spent.
The star's impulse Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful And love arrived may find us somewhere else.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

In a Garden

 When the gardener has gone this garden
Looks wistful and seems waiting an event.
It is so spruce, a metaphor of Eden And even more so since the gardener went, Quietly godlike, but of course, he had Not made me promise anything and I Had no one tempting me to make the bad Choice.
Yet I still felt lost and wonder why.
Even the beech tree from next door which shares Its shadow with me, seemed a kind of threat.
Everything was too neat, and someone cares In the wrong way.
I need not have stood long Mocked by the smell of a mown lawn, and yet I did.
Sickness for Eden was so strong.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

One Flesh

 Lying apart now, each in a separate bed, 
He with a book, keeping the light on late, 
She like a girl dreaming of childhood, 
All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait 
Some new event: the book he holds unread, 
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion, How cool they lie.
They hardly ever touch, Or if they do, it is like a confession Of having little feeling - or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination For which their whole lives were a preparation.
Strangely apart, yet strangely close together, Silence between them like a thread to hold And not wind in.
And time itself's a feather Touching them gently.
Do they know they're old, These two who are my father and my mother Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

In Memory of Anyone Unknown to Me

 At this particular time I have no one
Particular person to grieve for, though there must
Be many, many unknown ones going to dust
Slowly, not remembered for what they have done
Or left undone.
For these, then, I will grieve Being impartial, unable to deceive.
How they lived, or died, is quite unknown, And, by that fact gives my grief purity-- An important person quite apart from me Or one obscure who drifted down alone.
Both or all I remember, have a place.
For these I never encountered face to face.
Sentiment will creep in.
I cast it out Wishing to give these classical repose, No epitaph, no poppy and no rose From me, and certainly no wish to learn about The way they lived or died.
In earth or fire They are gone.
Simply because they were human, I admire.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

Accepted

 You are no longer young,
Nor are you very old.
There are homes where those belong.
You know you do not fit When you observe the cold Stares of those who sit In bath-chairs or the park (A stick, then, at their side) Or find yourself in the dark And see the lovers who, In love and in their stride, Don't even notice you.
This is a time to begin Your life.
It could be new.
The sheer not fitting in With the old who envy you And the young who want to win, Not knowing false from true, Means you have liberty Denied to their extremes.
At last now you can be What the old cannot recall And the young long for in dreams, Yet still include them all.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

Answers

 I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.
The huge abstractions I keep from the light; Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.
But the big answers clamoured to be moved Into my life.
Their great audacity Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.
Even when all small answers build up to Protection of my spirit, I still hear Big answers striving for their overthrow And all the great conclusions coming near.


by Elizabeth Jennings | |

A Chorus

 Over the surging tides and the mountain kingdoms,
Over the pastoral valleys and the meadows,
Over the cities with their factory darkness,
Over the lands where peace is still a power,
Over all these and all this planet carries
A power broods, invisible monarch, a stranger
To some, but by many trusted.
Man's a believer Until corrupted.
This huge trusted power Is spirit.
He moves in the muscle of the world, In continual creation.
He burns the tides, he shines From the matchless skies.
He is the day's surrender.
Recognize him in the eye of the angry tiger, In the sign of a child stepping at last into sleep, In whatever touches, graces and confesses, In hopes fulfilled or forgotten, in promises Kept, in the resignation of old men - This spirit, this power, this holder together of space Is about, is aware, is working in your breathing.
But most he is the need that shows in hunger And in the tears shed in the lonely fastness.
And in sorrow after anger.