Written by
Rainer Maria Rilke |
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
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Written by
Lisa Zaran |
Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.
I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.
Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.
I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.
Originally published in The Rose & Thorn, Summer 2004.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2004
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
there are eyes that refuse to exist
in the fresh air - they are invented
by the lies of paint or make their mark
in a memory that had a truth
to feed on but only by distortion
right now they sell a dream
i'd like to see the back of - they come
with a whole body rippling me apart
disturbing me with echoes of a flesh
so many layers down the light derides it
why can't i grasp it now
this love's reverberation of a sound
that tunes me deeper than my marrow
but runs from me when wanted to be real
(today's a dried pool whispering of an ocean)
the eyes (unreal or not) persist
life is at base such unreality - it stirs
surfaces through pretences who i am
each a wash of wish (its listless traces
the febrile flickings of a tight core's ends)
i'm struggling now for safety
want something from these diadems
this old light scores in me - these eyes
cradling me as i look through them
(won't let me go and i can't let them)
beyond love they cup aloneness
they're your eyes but my at-one-ment
(more to sing of than i can fathom)
sensing them calmly's the ripest pain
these eyes so poignant they daren't exist
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Written by
Philip Larkin |
The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
Draws me a moment to the lighted glass
To watch the dancers - all under twenty-five -
Solemnly on the beat of happiness.
- Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat,
The wonderful feel of girls. Why be out there ?
But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what
Is sex ? Surely to think the lion's share
Of happiness is found by couples - sheer
Inaccuracy, as far as I'm concerned.
What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell
(Art, if you like) whose individual sound
Insists I too am individual.
It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well,
But not for me, nor I for them; and so
With happiness. Therefor I stay outside,
Believing this, and they maul to and fro,
Believing that; and both are satisfied,
If no one has misjudged himself. Or lied.
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Written by
Barry Tebb |
for Wendy Oliver, who knew him
I am the sick animal you dream you are caring for
In the long avenues of night I cannot find a name
For the sickness except the despair of a poet sensing his veins
Silt up like the delta of a neglected river with none of the solace
Sidney Graham felt as he lay by Nessie’s side with Madron’s circling
Wood and its snow blanket of comfort falling as he glided
From this world into the next, finger-painting his adieux into the small
Of her back, bidding them be hidden beyond the tiny bulk of his poems
To be found by the faithful far from the yawning taverns of eager tourists.
Alone with Nessie and her shadows in sleep as the wood of Madron
Moved slowly towards that final deep.
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
the cupboard was done up
on the outside
in the brightest of colours
the house it was part of
was filled each day
with its loud exclamations
the sun looked in gladly
one morning and
fled (incredibly) dazzled
puzzled the people stared
up at the sun
nursing cursing its blindness
and many rumours spread.....
a cupboard that
had power to outshine the sun
must surely breed gold or
something godlike
behind such a brilliant door
a delegation was picked
to discover
the cupboard's bright secret
deep in the night it crept
into the house
awed even then by the glow
after much whispering one
was pushed forward
to throw the blazing door wide
inside was black (dread black)
with a smell of
dry rot to fetch up old ghosts
the delegates trampled
each other down
in their haste to be first out
not one of them sensing
at the back of
the third shelf down from the top
a small figure sucking
its thumb - rocking
(shocked) to and fro like a cradle
next day the whole house-front
was found done up
in the brightest of colours
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