THE CLEARING
Above this bramble-overarched long lane
Where an autochthonous owl flits to and fro
In silence,
Above these tangled trees – their roots encumbered
By strawberries, mushrooms, pignuts, flowers’ and weeds’
Exuberance –
The planetary powers gravely observe
With what dumb patience
You stand at twilight in despair of love,
Though the twigs crackling under a light foot
Declare her immanence.
THE THREE PEBBLES
(In thirty of these burials, the black deposit of fragmentized pots contained a small white quartz pebble associated with two pieces of alien ware, one red porphyry, the other a greenish stone, probably porphyry also. Their presence was clearly intentional. – Proceedings of the Cumberland and Westmorland Archaeological Society, New Series, vol. xiv.)
Is red the ghost of green? and green, of red?
And white, the impartial light upon them shed?
And I, my own twin warring against me?
Then, woman, take two jewels of porphyry,
Well matched in weight, one green, one angry red:
To light them with yourself, a pure moon-crystal,
And lay them on my bier when I am dead.
POSSIBLY
Possibly is not a monosyllable;
Then answer me
At once if possible
Monosyllabically,
No will be good, Yes even better
Though longer by one letter.
Possibly is not a monosyllable,
And my heart flies shut
At the warning rumble
Of a suspended But…
O love, be brief and exact
In confession of simple fact.
END OF THE WORLD
When, at a sign, the Heavenly vault entire
Founders and your accustomed world of men
Drops through the fundament – too vast a crash
To register as sound – and you plunge with it,
Trundling, head over heels, in dark confusion
Of trees, churches, elephants, railway trains,
And the cascading seven seas:
It cannot signify how deep you fall
From everything to nothing. Nothingness
Cushions disaster, and this much is sure:
A buoyant couch will bear you up at last,
Aloof, alone – but for the succuba.
TO A PEBBLE IN MY SHOE
I cannot pity you,
Poor pebble in my shoe,
Now that the heel is sore;
You planned to be a rock
And a stumbling block,
Or was it perhaps more?
But now be grateful if
You vault over the cliff,
Shaken from my shoe;
Where lapidary tides
May scour your little sides
And even polish you.
THE TENANTS
Pictures and books went off ahead this morning:
The furniture is sold (and tells you so);
Both trunks are packed, and seven suit-cases;
A cat glides petulantly to and fro,
Afraid to leave us.
Now massive walls and stairs, for so long certain,
Retreat and fade like a mirage at sea;
Your room and mine lose their established meanings –
By dawn tomorrow let them cease to be
Or to concern us!
We faced a scowl from window, door and fireplace,
Even in the kitchen, when we first were here;
It cost us years of kindness to placate them.
But now each scowl resolves into a leer
With which to speed us.
How dared we struggle with a house of phantoms,
Soaked in ill luck? And when we go away,
Confess, can you and I be certain whether
The ghost of our unhappiness will stay
Or follow with us?
MY MORAL FORCES
My moral forces, always dissipated
If I condone the least
Fault that I should have hated
In (say)
Politician, prostitute, or priest,
Appear fanatical to a degree
If ever I dispute
Claims of integrity
Advanced (say)
By politician, priest, or prostitute.
But though your prostitute, priest, or politician
Be good or bad
As such, I waive the ambition
To curl (say)
Chameleon-like on a Scots tartan plaid.
INTERVIEW
Sixty bound books, an entire bookcase full,
All honest prose, without one duplicate.
Why written? Answer: for my self-support –
I was too weak to dig, too proud to beg.
Worth reading? Answer: this array of titles
Argues a faithful public following.
Will I not add to the above statement,
Touching (however lightly) on my verse?
Answer: this question makes me look a fool,
As who breeds dogs because he loves a cat.