POETRY

This isn't even going to try to be a glamorous page -- instead it's just some poems I'm particularly fond of. The selections here will change according to mood and time available. But there'll nearly always be something by TS Eliot, Philip Larkin, Tony Harrison and a couple of others.

First, a poem from a British poet, Tony Harrison, whose work I like a lot. For me, it's a poem that captures with horrid clarity what it's like trying to connect with aging parents when you've moved to a different country.

Long Distance
Tony Harrison

I
Your bed's got two wrong sides. Your life's all grouse.
I let your phone-call take its dismal course:
Ah can't stand it no more, this empty house!
Carrots choke us wi'out your mam's white sauce!
Them sweets you brought me, you can have 'em back.
Ah'm diabetic now. Got all the facts.
(The diabetes comes hard on the track
of two coronaries and cataracts).
Ah've allus liked things sweet! But now Ah push
food down mi throat! Ah'd sooner do wi'out
And t'only reason now for beer's to flush
(so t'dietician said) mi kidneys out.
When I come round, they'll be laid out, the sweets,
Lifesavers, my father's New World Treats,
still in the big brown bag, and only bought
rushing through JFK as a last thought.

II
Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.
He'd put you off an hour to give him time
to clear away her things and look alone
as though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief
though sure that very soon he'd hear her key
scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,
in my new black leather phone book there's your name
and the disconnected number I still call.

Next, a poem by Thom Gunn, an elegant poet, a man who crafts his poetry with enormous care The poem is, in an odd way, about desire -- this despite the fact that its subject is snails.

Considering the Snail

Thom Gunn

The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,

pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts. I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there
with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail's fury? All
I think is that if later

I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have
imagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.

Finally, a poem by one of my favourites, Philip Larkin. It explores the blurred boundary between mother and adult child, and the constraints that love can impose. I'm particularly fond of the implicit hierarchy of the title.

Mother, Summer, I

Philip Larkin

My mother, who hates thunderstorms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost.

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone;
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

OTHER LINKS ON THIS SITE

Home

Gardening

Pets

Usenet

Shopping

Literature

Food

Psychology

Hunger Site