To My Mother – George Barker

Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.

She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,
But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain
Whom only faith can move, and so I send
O all her faith and all my love to tell her
That she will move from mourning into morning.

A Martian Sends a Postcard Home (1979) Craig Raine

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings

and some are treasured for their markings –

they cause the eyes to melt

or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but

sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight

and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish

like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.

It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside –

a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film

to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist

or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,

that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it

to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet, they wake it up

deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer

openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.

They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt

and everyone’s pain has a different smell.

At night, when all the colours die,

they hide in pairs

and read about themselves –

in colour, with their eyelids shut.

Cup by Annie Bien

Consider this cup, with fulsome lip shaped
in an O, vessel for an elixir -

Those lips moistened again and again press
you close for sustenance, drinking in deep

the draught of life, whether with absent mind
or tongue licking consciousness, newly roused.

When empty, your damp sides now dried, full
with potential. When full, fingers grasp you

desiring fluid, water clear and light,
smooth taste, slippery down the throat; when mixed,

coffee grounds, tea leaves, chocolate, fruit ades
stick to ceramic sides for seers, a cat

with furtive tongue licks drops of milk, scrape.

How many lips and tongues will slip themselves

around you in your lifetime, hands firmly
gripped and pressed against you?

On the shelf, you rest, upside-down, aging
with sentiment. The time he pressed his lips

to you, she didn't wash you, till he spent
the night and didn't go away.

The Tyger – WILLIAM BLAKE

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat.

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp.

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

How Do I Love Thee? Elizabeth Barrett Browning

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Some Feel Rain BY JOANNA KLINK

Some feel rain. Some feel the beetle startle

in its ghost-part when the bark

slips. Some feel musk. Asleep against

each other in the whiskey dark, scarcely there.

When it falls apart, some feel the moondark air

drop its motes to the patch-thick slopes of

snow. Tiny blinkings of ice from the oak,

a boot-beat that comes and goes, the line of prayer

you can follow from the dusking wind to the snowy owl

it carries. Some feel sunlight

well up in blood-vessels below the skin

and wish there had been less to lose.

Knowing how it could have been, pale maples

drowsing like a second sleep above our temperaments.

Do I imagine there is any place so safe it can’t be

snapped? Some feel the rivers shift,

blue veins through soil, as if the smokestacks were a long

dream of exhalation. The lynx lets its paws

skim the ground in snow and showers.

The wildflowers scatter in warm tints until

the second they are plucked. You can wait

to scrape the ankle-burrs, you can wait until Mercury

the early star underdraws the night and its blackest

districts. And wonder. Why others feel

through coal-thick night that deeply colored garnet

star. Why sparring and pins are all you have.

Why the earth cannot make its way towards you.

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.