3060 Chapters
Medium 9781847770684

Words for Music

Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

Words for Music

A voice on a drift of wind,

An echo left behind,

A star in one pane of glass,

An act of grace,

The child’s farewell to day,

The old with wisdom we

Recognise, the rose

Unplucked – for verse

These can be metaphors

Or, perhaps, words of praise,

The world is moving fast,

Poets are hard-pressed,

But at the day’s end there is

A silence to fit peace,

Moments when words ring true

And love also.

A Kind of Magic

The trees walk, they peer through the Summer haze,

The roses unfold their skin,

Chestnut candles glimmer. On such good days

Summer’s not only around us but within

Our thoughts and it plays there. I have walked through

A wood and gathered its light,

The last gleam of the sun before it must go

Into the territory of the night.

Magic thought of is a true event.

It happens in the mind.

It is imagination never spent,

It is the warmth that lonely people find.

Everything we think takes on unseen

Happiness or grief.

Not only mystics have interior lives.

Most have a little in a usual life,

But when it comes to God, how magic thrives.

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Medium 9781847770684


Elizabeth Jennings Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

But I sometimes long for a music of memory

A song with a rhythm, and blackbirds singing high,

For the ear is swiftly attuned to happiness.

It’s on the edge of my mind but always stays there

As the hint of a note, a recalcitrant, teasing sound

Which ears can’t catch and push it into my mind.

In fact if I think of birdsong it’s never connected

With Boston, Lincolnshire.

But what my ears lack is richly made up with scenes,

The white, cool dress of my Nanny in the moonlight

And the moon in several shapes staring at me

Surrounded by a majesty of stars

And sky was heaven and God the Father lived

Beyond the moon, beyond the stars, up there

High above everything, keeping order where

I once stared up in Boston, Lincolnshire.


Theatre of the Absurd, Theatre of Cruelty, Theatre

Of the here and now, the actual, the spare

Moments of revelation, then the bleak

Look at meetings and departures showing

All lack of understanding, people never

Able to touch or extend or assist each other.

Then there’s the Theatre of Ideas and wit

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2 Elvarethilion

Gallas, John Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

Six Origami Poems


Derry Railway Station

Fold the gentle Foyle beside this end, thus, where the train breathes at a slight curve.

To make the white fence, press the line upon the middle crease in a fine rain.

Then unfold the sheeted roof wing by wing in line with dim bridges and the rounded wall.

2 Elvarethilion

Begin by folding lengthwise and separating amongst bright enamels. To make the unearthly shine, fold the top point – which will be the blade – into a garnet beast, and double back the silver pommel into the dotted fist. Align the creases as if a rainbow were a staircase upon which folded feet boldly tread.

3 a leaping gnu

If you desire a larger gnu, you will need the shimmer from a lake amidst grassland. But a hill will do.

Divide the top half into three hearts: cow, horse and goat. Take point X upon the hoof and fold the top edge, thus, upon its grunt, so it is roughly equal to the distance from the far sun that pours beneath the black clouds to the brown, dusty horizon. This will be an unnatural lime green. To make the water, turn the world over, and crease.

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37 Jesus lights in Blenheim

Gallas, John Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF
Medium 9781457111617


Joshua Kryah University Press of Colorado ePub

Or we were poor and we did not know we were.

Or we were not poor and we thought we were.

Or we knew we were not poor.

Or just enough we did not deny being poor.

Or others told us we were poor and we believed we were.

Or this is what we told ourselves when we disliked others.

Or it was good to be poor among those who were not poor.

Or we had friends who were poor but did not know they were.

Or the poor were always among us.

Or we wanted nothing to do with the poor even if we were poor.

Or someone somewhere in our family had been poor.

Or it was a story we learned from our older brother who told us we were poor.

Or we told ourselves “at least we’re not poor.”

Or we made up things to make our lives a little less poor.

Always blood and those who give of it so freely.

The hemophiliac, the martyr.

The meatpacking plant at the end of the street.

Piles of ice dumped out back, soaked with the blood of deer, their hind legs broken, stabbed through, hung to drain.

And the children, always the children.

Gathering the ice into small handfuls, licking it as one would a snow cone.

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