Sylvia Plath | Conversation Among The Ruins


Through portico of my elegant house you stalk

With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit

And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net

Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.

Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak

Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light

Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight

Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;

While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit

Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,

Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:

Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

Don Paterson | Letter to the Twins


…for it is said, they went to school at Gabii, and were well

instructed in letters, and other accomplishments, befitting their

birth. And they were called Romulus and Remus (from ruma, the

dug), as we had before, because they were found sucking the wolf.

                                                             Plutarch, Parallel Lives


Dear sons - for I am not, as you believed,

your uncle - forgive me now in my dereliction.

In those nine months the single thought that grieved

me most was not your terrible instruction


in the works of men, the disillusionments - 

Nanking and Srebrenica, Babi Yar - 

you, bent above those tables of events

by whose low indices you might infer


how far you’d fallen. No, it was instead

the years you’d spend reconstituting all

the billion tedious skills of humanhood:

the infinite laws of Rome, the protocols

of every minor court and consulate - 

that city that must rise up from its razed

foundations, mirrored and immaculate,

for as often as we come back to this place.


In sum, they might account it a disaster

but whatever I did, I did it as a deft

composer of the elements, the master

of all terrestrial drag and spin and heft;


look at this hand - the way it knows how light

to grip the pen, how far above the brim

to fill the cup, or hard to steer the kite,

or slowly it can travel through the flame.


More, it knows the vanity of each.

But were I to commend just one reserve

of study - one I promise that will teach

you nothing of use, and so not merely serve


to deepen your attachment of your debt,

where each small talent added to the horde

is doubled in its spending, and somehow yet

no more or less than its own clean reward - 


it would be this: the honouring of your lover.

Learn this and she will guide you, if not home

then at least to its true memory. Then wherever

the world loses you, in her you are the same.


First, she will address you in a tongue

so secret she must close her mouth on yours.

In the curves and corners of this silent song

will lie the whole code of your intercourse.


Then, as you break, at once you understand

how the roses of her breast will draw in tight

at your touch, how that parched scrubland

between her thighs breaks open into wet


suddenly, as though you’d find the stream

running through it like a seam of milk;

know, by its tiny pulse and its low gleam

just where the pearl sits knuckled in its silk,


how that ochre-pink anemone relaxes

and unknots under your light hand and white spit;

and how that lovely mouth has no kiss

will take the deepest you can plant in it;


and how to make that shape that boys, alas,

will know already as the sign for gun

yet slide it with a woman’s gentleness

till you meet that other muzzle coming down.


Now, in all humility, retrace

your steps, that you might understand in full

the privilege that brought you to this place,

that let you know the break below the wool:


and as you lie there by her side, and feel

the wet snout of her womb nuzzle and lather

your fingertips - then you might recall

your mother; or her who said she was your mother.

Charles Hartman | Shave


I’m thinking about how I shave my face because yesterday

I shaved my father’s for the first time. This sun’s going to rise

a little farther right now every day. Soon I will return

to my normal life in another city and the year will decay

in an orderly fashion. He gestured me to cut

off the mustache. I wouldn’t. Everybody I said, every

damn body should have a mustache. Life is trouble.

Later I strode out looking for the car: one who can

walks from the hospital. This mirror,

I can’t get it right. The edge of my eye

comes and goes, watering. After a while I know

the days will turn back and walk north. I try to do

what I’m told. My sneeze rings louder in my father’s house,

I pace his carpets on naked feet, one of his cigarettes

in my hand. All the machines there hum and glow,

warming up, ready with readouts.

Outside his window, here, a mockingbird

runs on for minutes without repeating, stops

to consider her options, runs it exactly through once more.

She does the wren, the crow, the creaking door.

The sun gives up and lets go of the horizon.

I turn the light off and the razor on,

get back to work on a face I know

even in shadow.

Sean O’Brien | The Iron Hand


I once loved a boy with an iron hand.

He kissed me and he said:

Come for a walk on the old black path -

You can sit on my iron bed.

When I sat on his iron counterpane

He kneeled down before me and said:

Kathleen slip off your sensible shoes

And lie in my iron bed.

I’ll bring you whisky and silver,

A bird in an iron cage.

I’ll read you this poem and let you look

At the other side of the page.

It’s true I loved my iron man

From the depths of his iron bed.

I loved him and my life ran out

And I was left for dead.

I learned how his poem continued

On the far side of the page -

The hero could never distinguish

Tenderness from rage,

And locked me in the iron bed

From dawn till dead of night,

Mending children’s jerseys

While my coal-black hair turned white.

I gave him thirteen children

And ten were dead at birth.

Professor now you tell me how

To estimate my worth.

It’s true I loved my iron man

From the depths of his iron bed.

I loved him and my life ran out

And I was left for dead.

Allison Funk | Turning Forty


Lovers, all the drifting continents, are one

in the imagined world, Pangaea.

There, the hip of Africa

beats against the coast of Brazil.

Birds rain over the shared plains

of Eurasia and North America.

Mother, father. How long ago it seems.

Two hundred million years at least

since I left that fertile valley.

And still the sea floor is spreading,

setting my loved countries adrift.

Mapmaker, palm reader, I turn to you

and the ancients who seeing between

islands of stars, linked

like silversmiths

Andromeda, her Perseus.

John Martyn | May You Never

David Barber | Aria


What if   it were possible to vanquish

All this shame with a wash of   varnish

Instead of wishing the stain would vanish?

What if   you gave it a glossy finish?

What if   there were a way to burnish

All this foolishness, all the anguish?

What if   you gave yourself   leave to ravish

All these ravages with famished relish?

What if   this were your way to flourish?

What if   the self   you love to punish —

Knavish, peevish, wolfish, sheepish —

Were all slicked up in something lavish?

Why so squeamish? Why make a fetish

Out of everything you must relinquish?

Why not embellish what you can’t abolish?

What would be left if   you couldn’t brandish

All the slavishness you’ve failed to banish?

What would you be without this gibberish?

What if   the true worth of the varnish

Were to replenish your resolve to vanquish

Every vain wish before you vanish?

Dylan Thomas | Fern Hill


Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

       The night above the dingle starry,

               Time let me hail and climb

       Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

               Trail with daisies and barley

       Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns

About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,

       In the sun that is young once only,

               Time let me play and be   

       Golden in the mercy of his means,

And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves

Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,

               And the sabbath rang slowly

       In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay

Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air

       And playing, lovely and watery

               And fire green as grass.

       And nightly under the simple stars

As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,

All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars

       Flying with the ricks, and the horses

               Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

       Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

               The sky gathered again

       And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

       Out of the whinnying green stable

               On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house

Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,

       In the sun born over and over,

               I ran my heedless ways,

       My wishes raced through the house high hay

And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows

In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs

       Before the children green and golden

               Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me

Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,

       In the moon that is always rising,

               Nor that riding to sleep

       I should hear him fly with the high fields

And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

               Time held me green and dying

       Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

In Rapid City, South Dakota, my mother gave me ice cubes wrapped in napkins to suck on. I was teething then and the ice numbed my gums.

That night we crossed the Badlands. I rode in the shelf behind the back seat of the Plymouth and stared out at the stars. The glass of the window was freezing cold if you touched it.

We stopped on the prairie at a place with huge white plaster dinosaurs standing around in the circle. There was no town. Just these dinosaurs with lights shining up at them from the ground.

My mother carried me around in a brown Army blanket humming a slow tune. I think it was ”Peg a’ My Heart”. She hummed it very softly to herself. Like her thoughts were far away.

We weaved slowly in and out through the dinosaurs. Through their legs. Under their bellies. Circling the Brontosaurus. Staring up at the teeth of Tyrannosaurus Rex. They all had these little blue lights for eyes.

There were no people around. Just us and the dinosaurs.

Carol Ann Duffy | The Human Bee


I became a human bee at twelve.

when they gave me my small wand,

my flask of pollen,

and I walked with the other bees

out to the orchards.

I worked first in apples,

climbed the ladder

into the childless arms of a tree

and busied myself, dipping and

tickling, 

duping and tackling, tracing

the petal’s guidelines

down to the stigma.

Human, humming, 

I knew my lessons by heart:

The ovary would become the fruit,

the ovule the seed,

fertilised by my golden touch,

my Midas dust.

I moved to pears,

head and shoulders

lost in blossom; dawn till dusk,

my delicate blessing.

All must be docile, kind. unfraught

for one fruit -

pomegranate, peach 

nectarine, plum, the rhymeless 

orange.

And if an opening bud

was out of range,

I’d jump from my ladder onto a

branch

and reach.

So that was my working life as a bee,

till my eyesight blurred,

my hand was a trembling bird

in the leaves,

the bones of my fingers thinner than

wands.

And when they retired me,

I had my wine from the silent vines,

and I’d known love,

and I’d saved some money  -

but I could not fly and I made no

honey.

David Sutton | Cosmologies


‘If you could just keep going in a straight line’ –

Said my father, innocent of Einstein,

As we walked home one night of winter stars –

‘You’d come at last to somewhere where there was

Nothing at all. I mean, there has to be

A last star, and what then?’ This troubled me.

That night in bed I travelled in my mind

Through stars that whirled like snowflakes in the wind

Until I found, beyond one last faint glow,

A blank, like morning fog outside my window.

I woke and cried, but when my father came

To ask what ailed me, was it some old dream,

Sobbed ‘Nothing!’, so was left to sleep again

Like the blind Cyclops in his cave of pain.

Later I learned: my father had it wrong:

All lines bend back at last, however long.

There is no end to the great blizzard of light

I’d like to tell him now, and so I might

Had he not journeyed on, to somewhere far

Beyond all words of mine, and any star.

Tommy Nease | Donner Pass, 2011

Tommy Nease | Donner Pass, 2011

Boards of Canada | Reach For The Dead

The singing wilderness has to do with the calling of the loons, northern lights, and the great silences of a land lying northwest of Lake Superior. It is concerned with the simple joys, the timelessness and perspective found in a way of life that is close to the past. I have heard the singing in many places, but I seem to hear it best in the wilderness lake country of Quetico-Superior, where travel is still by pack and canoe over the ancient trails of the Indians and voyageurs.

I have heard it on misty migration nights when the dark has been alive with the high calling of birds, and in rapids when the air has been full of their rushing thunder. I have caught it at dawn when the mists were moving out of the bays, and on cold winter nights when the stars seemed close enough to touch. But the music can even be heard in the soft guttering of an open fire or in the beat of rain on a tent, and sometimes not until long afterward when, like an echo out of the past, you know it was there in some quiet place or when you were doing some simple thing out-of-doors.

I have discovered that I am not alone in my listening; that almost everyone is listening for something, that the search for places where the singing may be heard goes on everywhere. It seems to be part of the hunger that all of us have for a time when we were closer to lakes and rivers, to mountains and meadows and forests, than we are today. Because of our almost forgotten past there is a restlessness within us, an impatience with things as they are, which modern life with its comforts and distractions does not seem to satisfy. We sense intuitively that there must be something more, search for panaceas we hope will give us a sense of reality, fill our days and nights with such activity and our minds with such busyness that there is little time to think. When the pace stops we are often lost, and we plunge once more into the maelstrom hoping that if we move fast enough, somehow we may fill the void within us. We may not know exactly what it is we are listening for, but we hunt as instinctively for opportunities and places to listen as sick animals look for healing herbs.

Kate Clanchy | Overnight


Then I heard your breathing quicken,

whisper past my ear like the first

inquisitive gust of a storm on the roof,


and saw darkness press through the curtains,

mass there like burdened clouds, and felt

your fingers open in sleep on my shoulders,


settle close as the first snow lining the ground,

and a dream flicker across your eyelids,

swift as the switch of dry leaves in the wind,


and slowly your sleep deepened, gathered,

filled the room, calm as the great feathery flakes

that spin and land, weightless, one on the other,


and your arm loosened around me, suddenly,

as a branch will yield and shed its shelf of snow,

and your head drooped, filled the curve of my neck,


just as a drift might shift, and all night

your fingers brushed my skin, steadily changing

everything, like the levelled white we saw


in the morning, the lawn expectant as an empty page.