No Pablo Neruda
Essays on life, work and literatureArchive for April, 2009
Too Much Phil Collins
It’s a balmy summer night, my dear,
I’m standing here with an eye to the water
And an ear to the door.
You left last night, after a fight, I fear
The sound of your foot on the parquet floor.
But give me one more chance, my sweet,
Take me down to the boat
And take it from where it is moored.
We’ll pretend like we’re young
Like we’ve only just met
And we’ll sail away from the shore.
A Logic Of Passion
By framing her thoughts
In daily meditations
She was able to resist
Her usual temptations
And remained impassive
When he next entered the room.
He did not appear to notice
Her new demeanour
But there was a definite
Softening of the tension
That had previously
Overwhelmed her
When they studied together
In the midafternoon gloom.
If the framing of her thoughts
Was a protection to her only
It was sufficient
And she praised the essays she had read
Upon which
Her countenance relied.
The singular turn of phrase
Of the author
Had given her the tools
Which she required
In order to face this passion
And have it continually denied.
If in developing her conscience
In this particular refrain
She was sacrificing risk
And failing to extend herself
Or accept his refusal
It was not important, by and by.
Because the logic of passion
That she had framed
As a series of consecutive actions
And stresses, parentheses,
Short verses and verbs,
She mighty preferred to the suffering sigh.
A map of her land.
She doesn’t feel sad
About the look of her hand
It gives her a sense
An odd sense, of comfort.
She looks at the lines
At the ravages of time
And she remembers the past
Like unwinding.
Reminding herself
Of the bodies and babies
Reminding herself
Of the touches and grazes
Of the dishes, the glass
The flowers, and breads
She is not filled with dread
For this aging hand
She understands her
Discoloured topography
She knows the skin
She’s within.
And it fills her with comfort
That she’s made it this far
It fills her with pride
That her life has been wise
In choices and touches
In caresses and clutches
In expression, communion
Consolation and grief.
It is with a sense of relief
That it is mottled by mark
It is with a thought
For the deceased
That she feels good in her heart.
Of pens and inscriptions
She recalls each depiction
In art and on objects
Affected as it affects
This wise old hand
Line wearied like river sand
Is a map of her land
That only she understands.
Poet: Stephen Spender
This used to be my favourite poem for a long time. I’ve been navigating the web for it and, now, it is found.
Ice, by Stephen Spender
She came in from the snowing air
Where icicle-hung architecture
Strung white fleece round the Baroque square.
I saw her face freeze in her fur,
Then my lips ran to her with fire
From the chimney corner of the room
Where I had waited in my chair.
I kissed their heat against her skin
And watched the red make the white bloom,
While, at my care, her smiling eyes
Shone with the brilliance of the ice
Outside, whose dazzling they brought in.
That day, until this, I forgot.
How is it now I so remember
Who, when she came indoors, saw not
The passion of her white December?
Strangle, Hold
Tears spring suddenly,
Mid-embrace,
Wetting my face.
I resist the next touch
And a sob rises up
That until then
Had been repressed.
Now freed,
My body is overcome
With love for someone.
I am shocked
By how deeply I feel.
For long moments
I reel
In the sensation
Of missing someone.
He leaves
Without protest
And I am left
How I want to be left -
With thoughts
And doubts
Solitary
In my house,
Wondering
What I will do next.
Having finally cried
I am resigned
To my heart -
What it wants
Is a part
In his life.
I have no idea
If he feels this too.
I have no
Knowledge
Of what he did
Once we were through.
I imagine
Terrible things.
I imagine women
And charades
That last long into the night
Long after the fight
His force was targeting
Is won.
And those horrors
And those fears
Bring my tears
To a halt.
My red face
Is both from sorrow
And of shame
That there are other claims
He observes
With less reserve.
He serves
In a helpless manner
In the way I love
Until one day
We’re both suddenly surprised
To find
To find
A choking hold
On our heart and mind
That indicates we
Are unequivocally
Not free.
