his beloved admiring in the mirror
herself, glowing with his love,
so I watch you secretly;
polish that mirror, so that
we may see each other in it
and laughing,
wonder whom we see.
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Death
If we had celebrated their livingknowing that grief would surely comethen grief would have a place;deathis too late for grief.
Dear Amy – we all know how you feel –
‘cus we’re all still – well – much the same;just hiding behind a designer label.
kick aside that rat as you charge
of your dead mate whom you’ve no time to bury
O You Who Are..
that You are me myself,that I myself am You –or Who does not, in truth, say that;since You created me as You yourself,brooking no division and no doubt…then teach me, who am You yourselfto know myself; to knowthat I indeed know this in deed; and to rejoicein knowing that I know…teach me to know, in…
Wonder
is a poetlooks with aweupon all thingssees one in manypraises one,delights in manylovesreasonswonder is a poetBarely a year ago nowwhat was he?an adult student whom I scarcely knew,self-contained (and whatan epithet that is…) ,a human being with a warmth,a keen mind for profounder things, butnot burdened with over-education,still an innocent guarding wonder with a hidden…
strange name for a pet yeah?
and it knows its nameso we get along OKI keep it in its cage nowsince it’s a bit large and scaryfor those who haven’t met itor know its ownerbut I’ve given it all I can think ofto keep it amused in its cagepapers old books photos to keep its teeth sharpwe love each other to…
sleeping in Myself, I came to you
and looked into your mirror
to see whom I might see
and when you wake,
then you will see My breath
still moist upon
that mirror.
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the gentle plath
on the cold grey slateof crowpecked years
3 a.m. in the dark morning of a dark night;
a single candle flickering on a gleam of gold.I cannot see how great or small the dark space here, ofchapel, church, echoing cathedral; orare there trees around; or a stable; or a prison cell..? ..I cannot see how great or small his mind;I cannot see how great or small his heart;his soul…monk…your image, your imagined…
What is it doing on the clean carpet,
Not a curse upon the house-proudnor a criticising comment on the housekeeper,or retribution for the gap under the front door,or – it it’s blown in from the garden –a hint of early autumn threatening poetic sadnessor a reminder of the fragile evanescence of all thingsit is a whisper from Godwhich has eluded the debris whirling…
It’s May and it’s raining
as if I were the first rain itselfon Eden, blessing and blessedbefore there could beany division between the two,rejoicing in the scent of rainand green and singing gratitudea boy again, rejoicing in the scent of rain on earth,being, without thought,all these things
Honey,
so i looked in ‘Writers’ Weekly’and sent off for ‘Freshen Up Your Love Poems’by, it said, ‘a well-known successful writer’it suggested‘take a famous line and give it your own personal new twist’soI could not love thee, hon, so muchwere we not both fans of ‘Friends’.
She said that each one in the world
than anybody else… so, it’s a glorious gift,– a glorious duty – to know, acknowledge, this;but what happens, so she said,is that we know this, and deny it;but then if pressed somehow, we makea condition for ourself: ‘well, only if…’and this – the devil in the detail – is a wayto lock our talent in;…
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what may I give to you,
ask of me what you may
I said to My Beloved,
O my dearest one,
give me whatever
may bring You closer to me
bring me closer to You
My Beloved said
Tell me O my dearest one
that I may give you that
which brings Me closer to you
I said to My Beloved
Send me pain and suffering
for when I cry out to You
then I am closest to you
O my dearest one
My Beloved said
I shall send you what you ask,
O my dearest one
It is called the world
and we two shall be one in it
and know it as our dream of love
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There’s living; and then
there’s poetry,introducing one to the otherfor the first time; giving themnew names; sometimes seemingolder than both.
It is chandeliers
and diamonds and emeraldsthrown up to themand the beach after a storma homecominga log thrown on the firethe taste of lipsa baby’s smilea song remembereda walk with childrena dog wagging its taila welcomea meeting of eyesa sea-wet shell of pearlalabastera kitchen smell’s promisean old friend after so longthe scent of daphnelaughter betweenan unexpected touch of…
Favourite pencil
from waiting
The ancient sage, beset with too many thoughts
chooses carefully the place to sitbeside the lake,under the even more ancient twisted pinewith the view of distant cliffswhere the stork’s cry echoes;gathers his thoughts.Out of mercy,the breeze gently ruffles the surfaceof the lake;the sage, reminded by the ripplesof the stillness of the lake,smiles from a mind that’s now the lakereflecting the blueness of the…
It’s said in Indian circles that the years of retirement
of their next life. So I’m sitting here on a fine Sundayin a quiet London suburb, the very day when the geraniumshave decided that they and the sun are intoa long-term relationship, sitting wondering whetherI’d like to be an American poet next time around.It seems on the surface very tempting:for economic survival, teaching creative writingin…
Be a dolphin. Feel yourself
in which you were fathered, mothered,fed, grow up, and swim with all your friends…and then one day, you see them disappear from view –a powerful twist of tail… their body’s gone…gone where? … you find that air, whichyour nostrils have already breathed, is more…a lighter, unsupported worldin which all dolphins leapto celebrate their joyin being…