Written by
Barry Tebb |
I was never a film buff, give me Widmark and Wayne any day
Saturday matin?es with Margaret Gardener still hold sway
As my memory veers backwards this temperate Boxing Day-
Westerns and war films and a blurred Maigret,
Coupled with a worn-out sixties Penguin Mallarm?-
How about that mix for a character trait?
Try as I may I can’t get my head round the manifold virtues
Of Geraldine Monk or either Riley
Poetry has to have a meaning, not just patterns on a page,
Vertical words and snips of scores just make me rage.
Is Thom Gunn really the age-old sleaze-weasel Andrew Duncan says?
Is Tim Allen right to give Geraldine Monk an eleven page review?
At least they care for poetry to give their lives to it
As we do, too.
My syntax far from perfect, my writing illegible
But somehow I’ll get through, Bloodaxe and Carcourt
May jeer but an Indian printer’s busy with my ‘Collected’
And, Calcutta typesetters permitting, it will be out this year
With the red gold script of sari cloth on the spine
And **** those dusty grey contemporary voices
Those verses will be mine.
Haslam’s a whole lot better but touchy as a prima donna
And couldn’t take it when I said he’d be a whole lot better
If he’d unloose his affects and let them scatter
I’m envious of his habitat, The Haworth Moors
Living there should be the inspiration of my old age
But being monophobic I can’t face the isolation
Or persuade my passionate friend to join me.
What urban experiences can improve
Upon a cottage life with my own muse!
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Written by
Godfrey Mutiso Gorry |
If you meet literature from Africa
Or even their mentors
In such works
You realize a trait of madness
Pumping into the throbbing poetics.
There is a knack in it that sparks alight
The nearest shrubs;
Intrigue and sensation incomparable.
The heart of African literature
Pumping wordy blood into fragile young minds.
Rejuvenating the African word
That merges into a whirlpool mixture
Of creativity, and strengthen our verbosity.
Impregnated words
Be borne from fertility the center.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Expectation -- is Contentment --
Gain -- Satiety --
But Satiety -- Conviction
Of Necessity
Of an Austere trait in Pleasure --
Good, without alarm
Is a too established Fortune --
Danger -- deepens Sum --
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Written by
Thomas Hardy |
I am the family face;
Flesh perishes, I live on,
Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,
And leaping from place to place
Over oblivion.
The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye
Despise the human span
Of durance -- that is I;
The eternal thing in man,
That heeds no call to die
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs --
That phraseless Melody --
The Wind does -- working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky --
Then quiver down -- with tufts of Tune --
Permitted Gods, and me --
Inheritance, it is, to us --
Beyond the Art to Earn --
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers --
And inner than the Bone --
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands --
And thrum upon the door,
And Birds take places, overhead,
To bear them Orchestra.
I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be --
Who never heard that fleshless Chant --
Rise -- solemn -- on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept --
In Seamless Company --
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink -- enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine --
To go elastic -- Or as One
The Camel's trait -- attained --
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind --
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Written by
Delmira Agustini |
SpanishDebout sur mon orgueil je veux montrer au soirL'envers de mon manteau endeuillé de tes charmes,Son mouchoir infini, son mouchoir noir et noir,Trait à trait, doucement, boira toutes mes larmes.
Il donne des lys blancs à mes roses de flammeEt des bandeaux de calme à mon front délirant…Que le soir sera bon.
.
Il aura pour moi l'âmeClaire et le corps profond d'un magnifique amant.
EnglishForsaking my pride, I want to show the nightThe inside of my cloak, plunged in mourning for your charms.
Its infinite handkerchiefs, its handkerchiefs black and black,Piece by piece, tenderly, will drink all my tears.
The night lays lilies upon my burning rosesAnd cool cloths upon my feverish brow…How good the evening will be! It will have, for me,The luminous soul, the profound body, of a magnificent lover.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance -- Grace -- to Me --
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year -- A trait bestow
To make Me fairest of the Earth --
The Waiting -- then -- will seem so worth
I shall impute with half a pain
The blame that I was chosen -- then --
Time to anticipate His Gaze --
It's first -- Delight -- and then -- Surprise --
The turning o'er and o'er my face
For Evidence it be the Grace --
He left behind One Day -- So less
He seek Conviction, That -- be This --
I only must not grow so new
That He'll mistake -- and ask for me
Of me -- when first unto the Door
I go -- to Elsewhere go no more --
I only must not change so fair
He'll sigh -- "The Other -- She -- is Where?"
The Love, tho', will array me right
I shall be perfect -- in His sight --
If He perceive the other Truth --
Upon an Excellenter Youth --
How sweet I shall not lack in Vain --
But gain -- thro' loss -- Through Grief -- obtain --
The Beauty that reward Him best --
The Beauty of Demand -- at Rest --
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