Poetry

     the soul, Remembering how she felt, but what she felt Remembering not (Wordsworth) When your post-War Plymouth rattled up to our eternal practice, and you vaulted the fence, we’d drift down from the wildness memory does not hold, still half sky from shagging day-long flies. Sweat-suited, someone’s father, you’d bawl “Men!” Did the future press…

I meant to be neutral until I saw the doors battered with axes and the windows gone. I thought the town would be just a town, fountains, public buildings, throngs of shoppers, drinkers in the pubs. The party walls between houses stood, their fireplaces open to the sky; and groups of men in caps and…

The wolf discovers his fur is changing: gone flat now, sleek as sealskin. Once grey, now hazel, his gaze holds past territory, past food to memory and meeting. A giraffe he approaches stares before bolting. Shrills of alarm through the jungle. He deserts the ancestors’ feeding ground. He grazes now, like another, calmer species. At…

I like the way wasps always put me in mind of washing, when the summer was bright and the shade fell in stripes from the shutters. Then the blood runs swift in its vessels, the spots on vipers’ skins seem sharper. Even brambles grow venomous, women stroll down to the shore to watch in the…

Gladly they turned from the tragedy of six years gone to peaceful forests. Yet for many, old at twenty, life seemed phantasmagoric; and Cupid stumped on crutches. They took mint from the cold, cave-mouth springs and drank in the cool evenings, and drank in the warm afternoons, or dozed and dreamed, the ruined ladies, the…

And one other thing, Fear not she is frail This young girl though she’s slender You’ve seen the pitless bee Swoop hard in his flower — But no stem’s ever snap’t Take her firmly. No half-hesitant pressing’s Gotten all the sugarcane’s Sap. — Anonymous from the Subhàsitàvalì

The air opens like an invisible flower; the petals of night and day embrace. In the very center a rock stares into itself. Wandering stars come to rest in the shape of a skull. Men and women rush barefoot to the peak, drying their eyes on their frozen clothes. Tears of summer, tears of winter…

1. I lived as others do, avoiding death, deploring evils I dared not oppose, and making what I could of the distractions, until I woke one morning with the words: “There shall be neither rain nor dew these       years except according to my word; thus saith the Lord” — and I, as one still…

                only partly accounted for by the old delivery truck laden with bread      that hums up the coastline highway                      the redtail hawks switch to and fro on the crosswinds, they           drift towards sunrise and sunset                            stitching the wind of the east to the wind of the west