Bird, bird

BIRD, BIRD

Gene Derwood

Age after age our bird through incense flies,
Angel or daw, dove, phoenix, falcon or roe,
Till this last last net of wings dark changed to wreck
The hoops of heaven, dove's arc, and all that cries.
The clotted frets of Daedalus unlock
An egg of paradox the gods disguise;
Men as the organs of the bird demise
Heaven's breath under the bomber's moon, flac-flac.
Plunge, boy, to paradise that in heart's choir
Is home, rocked on the chords of birth, low
Again home, bringing to earth your found fire
Be hound or vine, not etrail to the crow
Of metal death, -explode the skies of fear-
Come down, O Icarus, come down, down, O.

Simple things

SIMPLE THINGS

Stephen Garrell-Wood

Such an unexpected joy.
Snow falling over all of London
I sat up half the night, listening to
music and reading recondite poetry.

Foxes were foraging, furtively,
almost a futile pursuit
There was nothing to best
describe the feeling other than to
say I was calm, at ease;
The possessions of others meant
little or low.
I felt no regret, no embarrassment
for my misdemeanors or nature.
Being both alive and alone, there
was much comfort in the knowing,
the morning would bring;
Hot buttered toast and sweet tea.

(From the March 30 issue of The Big Issue)

O crudelis amor

O CRUDELIS AMOR

T. Campion

When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iopé, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finish'd love,
From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels whivh sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of Knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake:
And when thou hast told of these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou dids't murder me!

My heart leaps up when I behold

MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD

W. Wordsworth

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

The Trossachs

THE TROSSACHS

William Wordswoth

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities
Rocks, rivers and smooth lakes more clear than glass

Untouch'd, unbreathed upon :- Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmannship to rival May),

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest !

To a mouse

TO A MOUSE
on turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785

Robert Burns

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Poets to come

POETS TO COME

Walt Whitman

Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,
Arouse! for you must justify me.

I myself write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance only a moment to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face,
Leaving it for you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

LOVELIEST OF TREES, THE CHERRY NOW

A.E. Houseman

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.