Durgan for J.M.
At Durgan waves are black as cypresses,
clear as the water of a wishing well,
caressing the stones with smooth palms, looking
into the pools as enigmatic eyes
peer into mirrors, or music echoes
out of a wood the waking dreams of day,
blind eyelids lifting to a coloured world.
Now with averted head your living ghost
walks in my mind, your shadow leans
over the half-door of dream; your footprint lies
where gulls alight; shade of a shade, you laugh.
But separate, apart, you are alive:
you have not died, therefore I am alone.
Like birds, cottages white and grey
alert on rocks are gathered, or low
under branches, dark but not desolate;
shells move over sand, or seaweed gleams
with their clear yellow, as tides recede.
Serene in storm or eloquent in sunlight
sombre Durgan where no strangers come
awaits us always, but is always lost:
we are separate, sharing no secrets, each alone;
you will listen no more, now, to the sounding sea.
The Barricades
If now you cannot hear me, it is because
your thoughts are held by sounds of destiny
or turn perhaps to darkness, magnetized
as a doomed ship upon the Manacles
is drawn to end its wandering and down
into the stillness under rock and wave
to lower its bright figurehead; or else
you never heard me, only listening
to that implicit question in the shade,
duplicity that gnaws the roots of love.
If now I cannot see you, or be sure
you ever stirred beyond the walls of dream,
rising, unbroken battlements, to a sky
heavy with constellations of desire,
it is because those barricades are grown
too tall to scale, too dense to penetrate,
hiding the landscape of your distant life
in which you move, as birds in evening air
far beyond sight trouble the darkening sea
with the low piping of their discontent.
The Dreamers
The sleeping sensual head
lies nearer than her hand,
but secret and remote,
an impenetrable land.
Each, in the hardening crystal
a prisoner of pride,
abstractedly caresses
the stranger at his side,
duality’s abyss
unspanned by desire,
reason’s cold salamander
scatheless in the fire.
She hears the sound of midnight
that breaks like a sea,
and leans above the sleeper
as secretive as he.
Casselden Road, N.W. 10For Marya
The wind would fan the life-green fires that smouldered
under the lamps, and from the glistening road
draw out deep shades of rain, and we would hear
the beat of rain on darkened panes, the sound
of night and no one stirring but ourselves,
leaning still from the window. No one else
will remember this. No one else will remember.
Shadows of leaves like riders hurried by
upon the wall within. The street would fill
with phantasy, the night become
a river or an ocean where the tree
and silent lamp were sailing; the wind would fail
and way towards the light. And no one else
will remember this. No one else will remember.
To Death
Enter with riches. Let your image wear
brocade of fantasy, and bear your part
with all the actor’s art and arrogance.
Your eager bride, the flickering moth that burns
upon your mouth, brings to your dark reserve
a glittering dowry of desire and dreams.
These leaves of lightness and these weighty boughs
that move alive to every living wind,
dews, flowers, fruit, and bitter rind of life,
the savour of the sea, all sentient gifts
you will receive, deserve due ritual;
eloquent, just, and mighty one, adorn
your look at last with sorrow and with fire.
Enter with riches, enviable prince.
Christmas 1944
Bright cards above the fire bring no friends near,
fire cannot keep the cold from seeping in.
Spindrift sparkle and candles on the tree
make brave pretence of light; but look out of doors:
Evening already surrounds the curtained house,
draws near, watches;
gardens are blue with frost, and every carol
bears a burden of exile, a song of slaves.
Come in, then, poverty, and come in, death:
this year too many lie cold, or die in cold
for any small room’s warmth to keep you out.
You sit in empty chairs, gleam in unseeing eyes;
having no home now, you cast your shadow
over the atlas, and rest in the restlessness
of our long nights as we lie, dreaming of Europe
A painted bird or boat above the fire,
a fire in the hearth, a candle in the dark,
a dark excited tree, fresh from the forest,
are all that stand between us and the wind.
the wind has tales to tell of sea and city,
a plague on many houses, fear knocking on the doors;
how venom trickles from the open mouth of death,
and trees are white with rage of alien battles.
Who can be happy while the wind recounts
its long sagas of sorrow? Though we are safe
in a flickering circle of winter festival
we dare not laugh; or if we laugh, we lie,
hearing hatred crackle in the coal,
the voice of treason, the voice of love.
Ballad
Bravely in a land of dust
we set out, as pilgrims must,
you, who fear the dark, and I
fearing winter in the sky.
Dark and cold the winter cloud
hung above the hill of lies
and my phoenix cried aloud,
took flight toward the eastern skies.
Do you think I shall forget
the tried intent, the diamond set
solitary and forlorn
in a coronet of thorn?
Beyond the high and frozen hill
beyond the forest black and still
I shall find you, where the fire
burns the wings of my desire.
Midnight Quatrains
I love to see, in golden matchlight,
intimate contours of a face
like discovered innocent in dusty annals of disgrace.
Caught in a minute’s spell of love,
a microcosm of sudden flame,
I learn this new geography--
wilderness I could never tame.
Listening to rain around the corner
we sense a dream’s reality,
and know, before the match goes out,
ephemeral eternity.
