3060 Chapters
  Title Author Publisher Format Buy Remix
Medium 9781847770974

92 off road

Gallas, John Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
Medium 9781574415049


Matt Miller University of North Texas Press PDF
Medium 9781847770684

A Smile and a Country, August 1981 (WUL, 11)

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

Or clumsy rhythms on which a poem will fail

And the failure is total. We must start again,

Nervous with craft, aching with some deep pain.

A Smile and a Country

It all came back, my love of Italy

Every pleasure there relished, every hour

Of a three-month stay returned when yesterday

Italian eyes lit up when I spoke a mere

Sentence in that tongue. Those eyes for me

Brought back Italian light of every kind,

The Easter one that spread through St Peter’s Square

After many April days of rain. I could stand

Feeling transformed every nerve aware

Through my five senses of this favourite land

Of mine. It is no city of the mind,

This world. No, it is Florence in late Spring

With views and paintings everywhere to find,

A real rebirth, Renaissance lingering

In every proud piazza. Dazzled not blind

I turn back a page to Assisi as it was

When St Francis loved his God so much he could

Also love the sparrows. Here was peace

And the light was not too strong. O I could

Read page after page of joyous memories

And give examples of countless shapes of light.

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Medium 9781885635136

Lives of Estuary

Rob Schlegel The Center for Literary Publishing ePub

Is the dark most complete
Where the restless gather

To convince themselves
Of the ocean? Right now

Are the gods with those
Who are dying? If not, perhaps

They will appear at dawn.

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2 anaphora

Gallas, John Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
Medium 9781857549867

Kite, Buzzard, Crow

Clarke, Gillian Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

Kite, Buzzard, Crow


Now it is August, and here, over our fields, seventy miles southwest of that spectacular daily event, kites are a common sight these days. This scavenger of the streets of medieval London was persecuted, shot by gamekeepers, its nests plundered by egg collectors until it was Britain’s rarest bird. A few birds survived in its heartland in the mountains of mid-Wales, though at worst, according to reports of studies using DNA evidence, its numbers were reduced to the offspring of a single female.

The other day a huge combine harvester was at work in our neighbour’s big barley field. All day, as the monstrous machine growled up and down the field, four kites haunted the sky, causing consternation to the buzzards and a crowd of crows competing to feed on fresh kill: crushed mice, voles, rabbits, frogs.

A kite is a parable of beauty and violence. Its obsession, its golden eye burning the ground for blood, the unflinching instinct to survive. Riding the thermals, it flexes its wings and long forked tail in independent movements – the only bird which can do that

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xxiv. in which the cartographer attends Reggae Sumfest

Medium 9781847770684

Love Poem

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

I think I know a little what you feel,

Being myself childless a different way.

When I see babies, they are not quite real.

I know, like you, the wonder – and dismay.

Love Poem

There is a shyness that we have

Only with those whom we most love.

Something it has to do also

With how we cannot bring to mind

A face whose every line we know.

O love is kind, O love is kind.

That there should still remain the first

Sweetness, also the later thirst –

This is why pain must play some part

In all true feelings that we find

And every shaking of the heart.

O love is kind, O love is kind.

And it is right that we should want

Discretion, secrecy, no hint

Of what we share. Love which cries out,

And wants the world to understand,

Is love that holds itself in doubt.

For love is quiet, and love is kind.

One Flesh

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,

He with a book, keeping the light on late,

She like a girl dreaming of childhood,

All men elsewhere – it is as if they wait

Some new event: the book he holds unread,

Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

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Medium 9781847770998

Evening Roses

John Gallas Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

V is for Vivien

Renée Vivien was born (Pauline Tarn) in London in 1877. Disappointed by affairs with an American heiress, a Rothschild baroness, and the wife of a

Turkish diplomat, she decamped to Egypt, Japan, Hawaii, the Middle East and America. She died in 1909 from a combination of anorexia, drugs and alcohol.

Age Approaches

I cannot pretend I am wrong anymore.

I am here, and bound to be, face to face with the inevitable, and the terror:

I confront the too-true mirror, and my soul weeps.

Every useless physic stokes my heart, for none returns my plundered youth…

I have borne too-all the killing weight of life and greet today my last despair.

Yesterday, the struggled, awful effort seemed so careless-light.

Today, shock shuts down my voice.

I feel my sometime soul die inside, the shadowed horror of my rotting ebb.

Evening Roses

Seaborne roses, sunset roses, and you that come from far with rose-charged hands!

I breathe your beauty. The falling sun turns rain into its golden cinders and its rose-tinc’t dust.

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John Gallas Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
Medium 9781847772671

xxvii. in which the rastaman says a benediction

Medium 9781847770684

The Words are Pouring

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

The Words are Pouring

The words are pouring. Listen to their sound,

Their implication, weather, strength and cry,

Let dictionaries shout against the wind

And lyricism find its weather there.

Here’s a world of freedom hardly won,

The fervent sun is beating on our faces,

Grace is found, religions praise themselves

And men stand back as if creation’s day

Were now and here, and all attempt to pray.

The weather of the world is altering.

Babel begins again, the many tongues

Of fraught mankind are fighting as they sing,

When once more can that younger John be heard –

‘In the beginning always is the Word’?

Rapture of Spring

Play havoc with our language. It is Spring.

Let nouns be adjectives and every adjective

Become an adverb. Let the language sing

As daffodils blow trumpets and the life

Of every bird takes wing.

The sap is running and the rainbow is

Pouring its colours out while every sense

Vies with the others in a wreath of praise,

A purpose of pure joy. Sweet innocence

Marches through our days.

Always something new is found to say.

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The Weapons (WUL, 6)

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

It loses warmth, becomes mechanical.

Detached, attached, it is a complex art.


Poems should possess and be possessed I know,

Should warn and wound. Sometimes I wish words were

Like columns rooted in the earth and stretching

Towards the sun, simply themselves and silent.

But words refer, refer,

Ask to be tested, traced,

Will let you down with one small oversight,

Insist on meaning, point to something else,

Demand your honesty and whole attention.

I have grown cautious now of writing poems and in the year that’s past have found a new

Respect for silences. I want my words

To feel the silences that lie around them,

Be joined, be linked, and yet remain themselves.

And in my poetry my life must slip

With unobtrusive truth; while you who have

Changed this whole year, with love, in you my poems

End and begin. Only the style is mine.

The Weapons

The mood has changed now. I, who feared the pain

Of loving and avoided it, have found

What strengths lie in my grasp, how I contain

Huge power to give or to withhold a wound.

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Medium 9781847770684

For Seamus Heaney (GU, 2/31/8)

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

For Seamus Heaney

Yours is the spirit, the mind I would like to be near

To talk of the making of poems with, learning new lessons,

For you are a teacher as well as a poet and in

Your essays and letters and tapes you’ve recorded I can

Observe the strength of our giving, counting no cost,

Never imagining any question stupid,

Any verses absurd.

In your verse you make the senses seize on the words

So that digging, harvesting, washing linen or making

A kite for your sons rise from language, become

A fresh experience, a nub of feeling, a speed

Of breath and wind. Seasons follow your words

But often take them over till tactile things –

A bone, a bowl, a pebble, a bucket or metal,

Your favourites the alloys, – work around me and bear me

Back to the farm where you grew up and learnt

With the child’s flawless instinct the strength of perennial growth

The grace of gripping a shoe, of polishing brass.

And then there are the touchings of love

The land of plenty, the corn of surrender, the harvest

Of seed and growth and birth. I give this power

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The Dancers

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

Still Life

Light on the table and the roses standing

Between the moment of their petals bending

And falling on the wood. Here there is no

Suppression of mere surface things; the glow

Of light and opaque petals are unwinding

Into each other. Soon you cannot tell

Whether the petals opened or light fell

Into the bud, an opening core of light;

Only you judge a lifting of some weight,

Fanning of petals, folding out yet still.

And watching all day long you would not touch

In time the moment when the petals each

Turned into cups of light. You’d merely see

The table strewn with shadows suddenly

And only broken roses within reach.

The Dancers

See how they move with strange smooth faces now.

Their feet find sympathy they never found

In words, their joy is bouncing on the ground.

The faster that they move the more they show

Soft and impassive features. It’s as though

Thought were abandoned and the mind grown small,

And we sense peace however fast they move.

Some centre they have found, silent and still

Round which they dance. It looks like love until

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