Read Online Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems by Lynette Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynette Roberts
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crystalline rock
And sharp shell and shale
Will arise for our freedom
For
our
feet to follow:
And this shall be always,
As it is never
.
Thursday September the Tenth
So that magnetism pierces each blight
And shallow ring: sends a scaffold of light
Through suspended hills, drinks truculent sight
And water-silk of day, floating splashing
Eyelashes on about air, swilling
Swallows clean against Sunday, clearing
Breasts whiter than butterflies low over sill;
Who glazed this day? Fetched labourers to spill
About soil, spading like hairpins to till
Of earth. Who gently lifts a strawberry set,
Opens row to shine streamlets of violet sweat,
Sun concentrating on circlet of dust a banquet
Of warmth: tends garden twine unravelled on path,
Liquid gleam round each raceme of grass, an aftermath
That quavers like parakeet fresh out of its bath.
Who polished this day? String of mackerel and glue
Sized and scoured sky to its finest grain of blue:
Flashed motor spirit through each splint of wing: drew
And transfixed man at his most monstrous art of war:
Picked out world mildew and muddled indifference; saw
Heart, pressure of steel, culled into a shadowed claw
Sharpen infinity, and all trees of branched iron,
Leaves elliptical pinnate sprayed thinly over rinsed apron
Of space, their metallic hue so starkly crisp, enamel legion
Of the partial eclipse: darkening nature
Finding a ferret of lines in each feature:
Who clipped this white-eyed splendour? Barbed-wire-fixture.
Meat cover on slab of slate prosecuting inkstand
Cold basin and porcelain plate. Day’s bristol shine: a band
Of empty beer bottles, wine jars green for thirst. So reprimand
And commemorate, for this day will come again, war and day,
Imprisoning each other with shylock glint: betray
Clashing bayonets, hold up of sunny sideboard and pay.
Who ran with the sun sandpapered the way? You
Under arcade of bracelet blue: or was it the view
That clarified thursday, September nineteen forty-two.
House of Commons
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
And spring with natural grace over quick snapping sill,
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge,
The spine-cord of tradition, frail people on edge:
Those, who sit upstairs and make old promises with skill,
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
And are taut and jumpy to catch from the ledge
So that to fill a promise means leaping the water-mill,
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge;
That they do not hasten the experiment, but hedge
And let a brandy hen with its vermilion gill,
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
Outshine them both, do what they would not with courage
Cross the wet mill and find the rare Dusky Crane’s Bill.
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge
That people mild as ducks seem put out by the sedge,
By things so natural, preferring drudge and privilege.
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge?
Crossed and Uncrossed
Heard the steam rising from the chill blue bricks,
Heard the books sob and the buildings huge groan
As the hard crackle of flames leapt on firemen
and paled the red walls.
Bled their hands in anguish to check the fury
Knowing fire had raged for week and a day:
Clung to buildings like swallows flat and exhausted
under the storm.
Fled the sky: fragments of the Law, kettles and glass:
Lamb’s ghost screamed: Pegasus melted and fell
Meteor of shining light on to a stone court
and only wing grave.
Round Church built in a Round Age, cold with grief,
Coloured Saints of glass lie buried at your feet:
Crusaders uncross limbs by the green light of flares,
burn into Tang shapes.
Over firedrake floors the ‘Smith’ organ
And sharp shell and shale
Will arise for our freedom
For
our
feet to follow:
And this shall be always,
As it is never
.
Thursday September the Tenth
So that magnetism pierces each blight
And shallow ring: sends a scaffold of light
Through suspended hills, drinks truculent sight
And water-silk of day, floating splashing
Eyelashes on about air, swilling
Swallows clean against Sunday, clearing
Breasts whiter than butterflies low over sill;
Who glazed this day? Fetched labourers to spill
About soil, spading like hairpins to till
Of earth. Who gently lifts a strawberry set,
Opens row to shine streamlets of violet sweat,
Sun concentrating on circlet of dust a banquet
Of warmth: tends garden twine unravelled on path,
Liquid gleam round each raceme of grass, an aftermath
That quavers like parakeet fresh out of its bath.
Who polished this day? String of mackerel and glue
Sized and scoured sky to its finest grain of blue:
Flashed motor spirit through each splint of wing: drew
And transfixed man at his most monstrous art of war:
Picked out world mildew and muddled indifference; saw
Heart, pressure of steel, culled into a shadowed claw
Sharpen infinity, and all trees of branched iron,
Leaves elliptical pinnate sprayed thinly over rinsed apron
Of space, their metallic hue so starkly crisp, enamel legion
Of the partial eclipse: darkening nature
Finding a ferret of lines in each feature:
Who clipped this white-eyed splendour? Barbed-wire-fixture.
Meat cover on slab of slate prosecuting inkstand
Cold basin and porcelain plate. Day’s bristol shine: a band
Of empty beer bottles, wine jars green for thirst. So reprimand
And commemorate, for this day will come again, war and day,
Imprisoning each other with shylock glint: betray
Clashing bayonets, hold up of sunny sideboard and pay.
Who ran with the sun sandpapered the way? You
Under arcade of bracelet blue: or was it the view
That clarified thursday, September nineteen forty-two.
House of Commons
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
And spring with natural grace over quick snapping sill,
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge,
The spine-cord of tradition, frail people on edge:
Those, who sit upstairs and make old promises with skill,
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
And are taut and jumpy to catch from the ledge
So that to fill a promise means leaping the water-mill,
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge;
That they do not hasten the experiment, but hedge
And let a brandy hen with its vermilion gill,
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
Outshine them both, do what they would not with courage
Cross the wet mill and find the rare Dusky Crane’s Bill.
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge
That people mild as ducks seem put out by the sedge,
By things so natural, preferring drudge and privilege.
When rose-hips red as braziers shine from the hedge
I suggest to you, is fear the backbone of a pledge?
Crossed and Uncrossed
Heard the steam rising from the chill blue bricks,
Heard the books sob and the buildings huge groan
As the hard crackle of flames leapt on firemen
and paled the red walls.
Bled their hands in anguish to check the fury
Knowing fire had raged for week and a day:
Clung to buildings like swallows flat and exhausted
under the storm.
Fled the sky: fragments of the Law, kettles and glass:
Lamb’s ghost screamed: Pegasus melted and fell
Meteor of shining light on to a stone court
and only wing grave.
Round Church built in a Round Age, cold with grief,
Coloured Saints of glass lie buried at your feet:
Crusaders uncross limbs by the green light of flares,
burn into Tang shapes.
Over firedrake floors the ‘Smith’ organ
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