Viewing 4 posts - 1 through 4 (of 4 total)
  • Author
    Posts
  • #16066

    MIRROR IN FEBRUARY

    The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
    Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
    Under the fading lamp, half dressed – my brain
    Idling on some compulsive fantasy –
    I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
    Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
    A dry downturning mouth.

    It seems again that it is time to learn,
    In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
    To which, for the time being, I return.
    Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
    I read that I have looked my last on youth
    And little more; for they are not made whole
    That reach the age of Christ.

    Below my window the wakening trees,
    Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
    Suffering their brute necessities;
    And how should the flesh not quail, that span for span
    Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
    I fold my towel with what grace I can,
    Not young, and not renewable, but man.

    Thomas Kinsella

    #461009

    Dreams fled away, this country bedroom, raw
    With the touch of the dawn, wrapped in a minor peace,
    Hears through an open window the garden draw
    Long pitch black breaths, lay bare its apple trees,
    Ripe pear trees, brambles, windfall-sweetened soil,
    Exhale rough sweetness against the starry slates.
    Nearer the river sleeps St. John’s, all toil
    Locked fast inside a dream with iron gates.

    Domestic Autumn, like an animal
    Long used to handling by those countrymen,
    Rubs her kind hide against the bedroom wall
    Sensing a fragrant child come back again
    – Not this half-tolerated consciousness
    That plants its grammar in her yielding weather
    But that unspeaking daughter, growing less
    Familiar where we fell asleep together.

    Wakeful moth wings blunder near a chair,
    Toss their light shell at the glass, and go
    To inhabit the living starlight. Stranded hair
    Stirs on still linen. It is as though
    The black breathing that billows her sleep, her name,
    Drugged under judgement, waned and – bearing daggers
    And balances–down the lampless darkness they came,
    Moving like women : Justice, Truth, such figures.

    #461010

    I love those two offerings.. thank you boys.

    #461011

    1

    Now, as I sink in sleep,
    My heart is cut down,
    Nothing—poetry nor love—
    Achieving.

    *

    Turns again in my room,
    The crippled leopard.
    Paw-pad, configured
    Yellow light of his eyes,
    Pass, repass, repass.
    Quiet, my hand; he is tame.
    Soon, while I dream, will step
    And stir the sunken dawn.

    2

    Before I woke there entered in
    A woman with a golden skin
    That tangled with the light.
    A tang of orchards climbed the stair
    And dwindled in the waxen air,
    Crisping the midnight,
    And the white pillows of my bed
    On apple-tasted darkness fed.
    Weakened with appetite
    Sleep broke like a dish wherein
    A woman lay with golden skin.

Viewing 4 posts - 1 through 4 (of 4 total)

Get involved in this discussion! Log in or register now to have your say!