My Favourite Poetry
Friday, 17 May 2024
Tone Deficit BY KEVIN MCFADDEN
Some Feel Rain BY JOANNA KLINK
At Black River by Mary Oliver
All day
its dark, slick bronze soaks
in a mossy place,
its teeth,
a multitude
set
for the comedy
that never comes —
its tail
knobbed and shiny,
and with a heavy-weight's punch
packed around the bone.
In beautiful Florida
he is king
of his own part
of the black river,
and from his nap
he will wake
into the warm darkness
to boom, and thrust forward,
paralyzing
the swift, thin-waisted fish,
or the bird
in its frilled, white gown,
that has dipped down
from the heaven of leaves
one last time,
to drink.
Tuesday, 7 May 2024
Some Kiss We Want by Rumi
There is some kiss we want with
our whole lives, the touch of
spirit on the body. Seawater
begs the pearl to break its shell.
And the lily, how passionately
it needs some wild darling! At
night, I open the window and ask
the moon to come and press its
face against mine. Breathe into
me. Close the language- door and
open the love window. The moon
won't use the door, only the window.
Friday, 1 December 2023
Fishing Boats on the Beach at Saintes-Maries-De-La-Mer (On Van Gogh's painting) - Jude Goodwin
One of these boats carried Mary,
put to sea by the Romans,
the crying woman, hands wrapped with rags
that smell of myrrh. And a tomb angel
guards the beach. All the fishers have fled in fear
except the one who stayed to spread his cloak
over the water. For the women
in the boat, no sail, no paddles.
And the mourning Mary. Miracles,
she tells him, are untouchable.
The fisher guides her hand
to the red boat's prow,
the old wood thick
with loving paint. Hold fast
mother, he says
and the women are gone.
Flat sea. Four boats
returned to shore. Curdled cod's breath
sky. A yellow mast, yellow grass.
Some kind of large grey wing
floating in the water,
washing up against the rock.
After La Siesta (On Van Gogh's Painting) - MR James
(Subject's perspective)
Morning's hard labour in field done,
we lie down, he and I, sickles and shoes
shed for a spell. High noon sun
bears down from cloudless sky
while cicadas shriek a lullaby.
We shelter in haystack's shadow,
deep in black sleep drawn
no sooner than head hits straw,
its sweet smell melding with earth,
dung, fresh cut grain, and sweat. I dream
not of the reaping behind us,
or before us upon rising.
(Painter's perspective)
They say I said, "No blue
without yellow, without orange."
Perhaps I did once, but here
on this day, who can deny
such shades of distinction?
As surely as the sky wears violet-blue,
her sun irradiates the field beneath
in gold - labourers need respite
from its hot bright hue,
their garb more gorgeous
for its drab simplicity,
toil-polished tools nearby
mirroring the pair's unwitting harmony.
How I long to lie with them,
share rough pleasure after pure toil,
bones and muscles aching
earn a measure of relief
on wakening.
This painter, for all his wealth of oil,
finds no rest on canvas,
no stillness in his landscape,
no reprieve but the fevered glow
of brushstroke.
Christina of Denmark (On Holbein's Painting) - Josie Turner
The Queen must be beautiful, I understand.
Even a candidate must have qualities
not insulting to the throne. The King's hand
discriminates. I've watched it hovering
over this canvas or that, assessing
fearful calculated veracity.
I made her beautiful, to be worth the trip.
It worked - the likeness endures,
clear of cast and sensuous of lip;
my warnings heeded. The court is wise.
The girl's writhing hands and very shadow advise
of my three hours bent to her allure.
The sable collar of her mourning coat
lolls like a noose, its falling swags
disguise her form, my lady floats
across the vermilion floor (I stood her
on two books). Her smile recurs.
One husband down, gloves twisted to wet rags,
eyes that never leave me, sardonic
brow that never falls, a face
propped like a mask on a stiffened tunic -
my silence as I knelt, Henry's silence,
the caw of birds, the signalled violence -
the blackened edges of her exquisite lace.
Tone Deficit BY KEVIN MCFADDEN
Can't tell your oh from your ah ? Go, go or else go ga-ga. What, were you born in a barn? Oh. Ah. What do you say when the dentist ...
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It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s lon...
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this isn't how I planned for my life to look like," I whispered under my breath as I walked to my car "tell me about it,&quo...
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They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some ext...