All posts tagged: poetry

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 #61

Catalogue of Ephemera You give me flowers resembling Chinese lanterns. You give me hale, for yellow. You give me vex. You give me lemons softened in brine and you give me cuttlefish ink. You give me all 463 stairs of Brunelleschi’s dome. You give me seduction and you let me give it back to you. You give me you. You give me an apartment full of morning smells—toasted bagel and black coffee and the freckled lilies in the vase on the windowsill. You give me 24-across. You give me flowers resembling moths’ wings. You give me the first bird of morning alighting on a wire. You give me the sidewalk café with plastic furniture and the boys with their feet on the chairs. You give me the swoop of homemade kites in the park on Sunday. You give me afternoon-colored beer with lemons in it. You give me D.H. Lawrence, and he gives me pomegranates and sorb-apples. You give me the loose tooth of California, the broken jaw of New York City. You give me …

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 #53

A poem dear to my heart (but anything worth doing is worth doing badly) for your weekend. Mine is just ending here, one degree north of the equator (hence my silence these past few weeks.) I’ve been travelling, and concurrently sick as a dog, taking in new sights and sounds and smells with the stuffiest nose and hurtiest head I’ve ever known. On the mend now, with lots to tell of Singapore, Saigon and surroundings – all in time. Say hello to England for me, won’t you? 🙂 Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew. It’s the same when love comes to an end, or the marriage fails and people say they knew it was a mistake, that everybody said it would never work. That she was old enough to know better. But anything worth doing is worth doing badly. Like being there by that summer ocean on the other side of the island while love was fading out of her, the stars burning so extravagantly those nights that anyone could tell you they would never last. Every …