Not just a treasury but a very precious little treasure too. Published in 1947, the poems may no longer be quite so modern but they are still certainly beautiful. Here is one I particularly liked …. ‘deep is the silence.’
| Moonlit Apples
At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet is the steep stair under.
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep
On moon-washed apples of wonder.
I’m finding it hard to find the right words when I need them. Either there are too many difficult ones when I should probably just shut up, or not enough when I want to write a poem that has substance. Anyway, whilst on my rather melancholy travels through poetry land looking for words that speak more articulately than my own…I discovered this gem and it even made me smile!
My next poem is definitely going to be about a road sign.
Slippery road ahead?
End of speed restriction?
There’s half a poem right there…
Why do I post my love letters
in a hollow log?
Why put my lips to a knothole in a tree
and whisper your name?
The spiders spread their nets
and catch the sun,
and by my foot in the dry grass
ants rebuild a broken city.
Butterflies pair in the wind,
and the yellow bee,
his holsters packed with bread,
rides the blue air like a drunken cowboy.
More and more I find myself
talking to the sea.
I am alone with my footsteps.
I watch the tide recede
and I am left with miles of shining sand.
Why don’t you talk to me?
Here I am.
A voice without words
Oh so silently.
Words have proved elusive this week but I found some in the end...
The Kiss by Edvard Munch
At night, in that cold, steel silence
Silvered in moonlight
They come together
Their white forms one,
Then two again;
Dancers on a cotton stage,
The orchestra of imagination
Plays on as they move,
His powerful limbs
Leading her with a
Graceful fierceness and
A touch that trails fire,
Speaks of love and
The silent splinter
The more I thought about it,
The more it really hurt.
I am oddly pleased with the oh so ‘creative’ titles for today and yesterday’s poetic offerings. Hopefully the poems are marginally better…There was only going to be one poem for today but then I ended up writing two, as you do, and couldn’t decide which one I liked best…
I gave the most transparent hints all week:
This is what I need.
You gave them right back again:
This is not what I need.
Sometimes, the struggle isn’t only yours,
It’s mine too.
Sometimes, behind the smiles you see,
There are tears.
Sometimes, all I need is to know,
Is that you still love me.
Sometimes, perhaps I explain this all wrong;
Sometimes, I should probably just give up,
‘Starry Night’ by Vincent Van Gogh
Let me take my love
And hang it like the most brilliant star
In the dark space between us.
Look skyward at night and see it
Shining just for you,
Longing just for you,
Existing just for you.
Know it’s yours
To reach out and touch
Even though it seems so very far away
And difficult to find.
It will always be yours,
Burning quietly fierce
In the silky blackness
As it waits for you, star gazer.
With eyes that tell of love
And a heart that smiles;
This starry love belongs to only you.
Crows circle overhead,
Black wings against granite sky.
There is obviously something below
Something beneath them
That I cannot see and
That keeps them there
For a while in swirling observation.
Below them, trees stripped of leaves,
Stand in frozen silence
Unable to warn of the horror and ecstasy
That might unfold.
They watch on
I watch on
Out of the window
Circling something in my mind that I cannot escape,
That I keep coming back to
And in the centre, unchanging, immovable,
I am rooted like those trees.
Unable to shift my orbit as those birds do
Who, growing cold or bored or weary,
Disband their unholy circle
And scatter like grit
Caught on invisible currents.