Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 19

Idiomatic poetry

Paul Brookes’ chosen form last week was idiomatic poetry The result was fun, but I’m not certain it’s poetry.

A figgy pudding, pardi

They sit on the fence, mi-figue mi-raisin,
while the world goes west,

à l’ouest, where we send the mad ones,
away with the fairies and the illuminés,

because they see light at the end of the tunnel,
la sortie de l’auberge, where pigs fly,

and hens have teeth. There will be happiness
at the end of the day, that time entre chien et loup,

that place over the moon, where everything
is half-fig, half-grape, and all circles are squared.

Questions and nonsense

When the answer is,
how long is a piece of string,
what was the question?

And if ce n’est pas le Pérou,
nor la mer à boire,
what is it?

I would like to get out of this wood,
where all I can see are trees,
but the blind are leading the blind,

and though there might be short cuts
along the way, it will always be
a long long way to Tipperary.

More cranes

More cranes

I can hear the beating of wings above the voice of the wind,
the feather-fuelled drive to the northlands,
the joyous cold hearth-lands.

Not singing, this, no sweet melodious notes,
dripping celestial nectar,
but a hoarse, raucous calling,
that rattles the spring sky from end to end.

32. (seven lines)

32.

This morning is bright
as a magpie’s eye
with frost-cold frilling still water

though the yellow sun
dabs dandelion eyes open
and sings spring green
in the throat of the thrush
.

31. (seven lines)

31.

Cranes, night-flying
over the house,
louder than the owls’
low crooning,

the only roisterers out late,
rowdies rolling home after the party,
to be guided by the stars.

Myths

Myths

The she-pink is a lie,
says the goddess with storms in her fingertips.
All that bursts from the egg
is blue and green as oceans,
red-roaring as sunsets.

Bitter or sweet,
bird-quick or slow as glaciers,
all life runs its course,
from the fiery crucible of her hollowed hand,
to the deep calm of the eternal stars.

Shooting stars and daffodils

Shooting stars and daffodils

Cold still bites these hesitant spring days,
shooting with gold, uncontained,
unafraid of frosty nights,
while I, behind closed window, watch the stars,

shooting with gold uncontained,
falling to fill dark pools with light.
We count them shimmering,

unafraid of frosty nights,
for daffodil days will spring with the thrush,
singing the sun awake,

while I, behind closed window, watch the stars
fading, first east then west, and last,
the ice-caught orphans in frozen well water.

A song

A song

I heard a song today
that drifted from a far-off place,
a far-off time, a voice as clear
and sharp as water falling from a star,
into a dark pool rippled by the wind,
where the moon sails.

Some songs, some voices,
like cathedrals and passage graves,
are pillars of eternity.

Spring frost

Spring frost

Cold as the bare bones of charity,
the hill, sleek with frost-fur,
fait le dos rond.

No sun strokes away the chill,
cloud, colour of dirty wool,
makes its own silence,

hushing the fluttering finches
searching for seeds,
scraps of brilliance in this dull desert.

Planets align and fall

This evening, for barely an hour, Venus and Jupiter hung together in low in the western sky before slipping together beneath the horizon. Poem within poem.

Planets align and fall

On the western rim of the sky,
worlds ply, ships bright as stars,
sailing into night, falling
over the tumbling sun,
streaming their beacon-light
in the dark of the sun’s wake.

Time flows differently in space
a million miles extinguished
in the beating minutes of a heart,
in a hand, fingers curled, a cage,
butterfly wings open, close,
the headlights of a passing car blink,
and a world is gone.

5. (eight lines)

5.

I wish the world
was how it seems
when I search
beneath leaf litter,

myriad lives swarming,

when a breeze stirs
new green stalks
dandelion flowers.