All posts tagged: poem

girl holding bluebells

Poem For The Weekend #67

All The Things You Are Not Yet for tess Tonight there’s a crowd in my head: all the things you are not yet. You are words without paper, pages sighing in summer forests, gardens where builders stub out their rubble and plastic oozes its sweat. All the things you are, you are not yet. Not yet the lonely window in midwinter with the whine of tea on an empty stomach, not yet the heating you can’t afford and must wait for, tamping a coin in on each hour. Not the gorgeous shush of restaurant doors and their interiors, always so much smaller. Not the smell of the newsprint, the blur on your fingertips — your fame. Not yet the love you will have for Winter Pearmains and Chanel No 5 — and then your being unable to buy both washing-machine and computer when your baby’s due to be born, and my voice saying, “I’ll get you one” and you frowning, frowning at walls and surfaces which are not mine — all this, not yet. Give …

Poem For The Weekend #64

Good Hours I had for my winter evening walk— No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow. And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces. I had such company outward bound. I went till there were no cottages found. I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window but that was black. Over the snow my creaking feet Disturbed the slumbering village street Like profanation, by your leave, At ten o’clock of a winter eve. Robert Frost

Poem For The Weekend #57

Because it’s been one of those weeks. Sending a big spoonful of girl power out into the world. Illustration by Jem Magbanua. He tells her that the earth is flat– He knows the facts, and that is that. In altercations fierce and long She tries her best to prove him wrong. But he has learned to argue well. He calls her arguments unsound And often asks her not to yell. She cannot win. He stands his ground. The planet goes on being round. – Wendy Cope, Differences Of Opinion

Poem For The Weekend #50

I stand on the top rung and the step ladder shakes; above me the winter pears just out of reach, clean and strung heavy along limbs and swaying like my grandmother’s aprons hung on the line to dry. I drop one into the bag she holds open below me. She grins, and I’m drawn into the embrace of her gaze— down into handfuls of earth, seasons, the empty cup of a lost daughter, a lost breast. I’m stitched into miles of quilts, curtains, tablecloths, hems of pants, skirts. I’m held to her like a button on a shirt pocket, and I smell soap, tomatoes, chicken soup, Portuguese sweet bread, goat cheese, pears… and I lower myself out and around the gnarl of branch, down the ladder to take the full bag of the fruit I love, warm from the sun and spotted like her hands. – Gary J. Whitehead

Poem For The Weekend #47

Marriage of Many Years Most of what happens happens beyond words. The lexicon of lip and fingertip defies translation into common speech. I recognize the musk of your dark hair. It always thrills me, though I can’t describe it. My finger on your thigh does not touch skin— it touches your skin warming to my touch. You are a language I have learned by heart. This intimate patois will vanish with us, its only native speakers. Does it matter? Our tribal chants, our dances round the fire performed the sorcery we most required. They bound us in a spell time could not break. Let the young vaunt their ecstasy. We keep our tribe of two in sovereign secrecy. What must be lost was never lost on us. – Dana Gioia