Famous Sensing Poems by Famous Poets

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A Walk

 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...Read more of this...

shocked

 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...Read more of this...

the eyes that haunt me

 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...Read more of this...

Reasons For Attendance

 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...Read more of this...

Death Of A Poet

 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...Read more of this...

Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen

 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...Read more of this...

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