Grey Hairs

by Marina Tsvetaeva

These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which
Granite is dross.
Dove, naked and brilliant,
It has no mate.
Solomon's ashes
Over vanity that's great.
Time's menacing chalkmark,
Not to be overthrown
Means God knocks at the door
- Once the house has burned down!
Not checked yet by refuse,
Days' and dreams' conqueror
Like a thunderbolt - Spirit
Of early grey hair.
It's not you who've betrayed me
On the home front years.
This grey is the triumph
Of immortal powers.

A Fairy Song

by William Shakespeare

Over hill, over dale
Through bush, through brier,
Over park, over vale.
Through flood, through fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere
And I serve the Fairy Queen
To dew her orbs upon the green,
The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see,
These be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours,
I must go, seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

Change

by Kathleen Raine


Change
Said the sun to the moon,
You cannot stay.

Change
Says the moon to the waters,
All is flowing.

Change
Says the fields to the grass,
Seed-times and harvest,
Chaff and grain.

You must change,
Said the worm to the bud,
Though not a rose.

Petals fade
That wings may rise
Borne on the wind.

You are changing
Said death to the maiden, your wan face
To memory, to beauty

Are you ready to change?
Says the thought to the heart, to let her pass
All your life long

For the unknown, the unborn
In the alchemy
Of the world's dream?

You will change,
Says the stars to the sun,
Says the night to the stars.

Light Is More Important Than The Lantern

by Nizar Qabbani

Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than the both of us
They are the only documents
Where the people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.

A Fairly Sad Tale

by Dorothy Parker

I think that I shall never know
Why am I thus, and I am so.
Around me, other girls inspire
In men the roar and rush of fire,
The sweet transparency of glass,
The tenderness of April grass,
The durability of granite;
But me - I don't know how to plan it.
The lads I've met in Cupid's deadlock
Were - shall we say - born out of wedlock.
They broke my heart, they stilled my song 
And said they had to run along,
Explaining, so to sop my tears,
First came their parents or careers.
But ever does experience
Deny me wisdom, calm and sense!
Though she's a fool who seeks to capture
The twenty-first fine, careless rapture,
I must go on, till ends my rope,
Who was from my birth was cursed with hope.
A heart in half is chaste, archaic;
But mine resembles a mosaic -
The thing's become ridiculous!
Why am I so? Why am I thus?

Who’s that man in the garden? Don’t worry it’s only me – or my dad

It’s been getting on for 30 years since I said my final farewell to my father, my last words to him were very simple, “I love you”.

I miss him every day.

No. That’s wrong.

I don’t miss him because he is with me every day.

This weekend I found he is with me more than I could have ever realised.

When I was a little boy family members who knew my father at that age used to say how much I looked like him. I couldn’t understand at the time how that was possible. He was twice as big as me and he had a moustache.

Over the years our appearances changed as we both grew older.

When his time came he was no longer the big boisterous father I had known throughout my childhood and teens. He wasn’t the somewhat older, but still boisterous father I had always been able to rely on for good advice and as helping hand when I needed it once I became a man.

Since he has gone I could still see him if I looked carefully in a mirror.

The older I got the more of his face and mannerisms I could see.

The point is that I could still see me there, I could also see my mother, just as when we three siblings meet again after long gaps I could see her in my sister and, in a strange way, in my brother.

Then the other day I was checking the memory card from my garden camera and running through the stills and images that had been taken from the previous day.

As I watched I suddenly saw my father in our garden.

Not a ghostly image, or a grainy evening, gloomy image.

This was mid-afternoon with plenty of light to show off the images.

He walked down the path and into the garage workshop, close to the wildlife feeding area. In the next video clip he came out of the garage and walked towards the camera, at which point the figure became me.

I must have gasped because Marion asked me what was wrong.

I told her as I showed her the video clip.

“That’s Dad,” I said.

“Everything about him, I mean me, in fact I’m not sure what I mean.”

“Of course it’s your Dad,” she said. “I’ve always seen him there.”

The point is I rarely see video of me. Ordinary family snaps yes but most of the time I have been the one taking them.

In this I was observing a figure in the background whose back bent slightly from waist to neck and whose head was slightly tilted forward. He leant slightly on a walking stick.

It was definitely my father.

I suppose just as Marion had always seen the two-in-one I had always seen him in my face, and felt his presence.

This does not mean I do not see my mother when I look in a mirror, or even at times my older brother. But at all times I am definitely my father’s son.

Fox

by Alice Oswald

I heard a cough
as if a thief was there
outside my sleep
a sharp intake of air

a fox in her fox-fur
stepping across
the grass in her black gloves
barked at my house

just so abrupt and odd
the way she went
hungrily asking
in the heart's thick accent

in such serious sleepless
trespass she came
a woman with a man's voice
but no name

as if to say: it's midnight
and my life
is laid beneath my children
like gold leaf

Always Marry An April Girl

by Ogden Nash

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy,
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered langour,
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true -
I love April, I love you.

Sorry to see my top teams lose but a young Welsh side shows promise

Getting a double dose of rugby this weekend – well a dose and a half really because I watched the second half of the France/Scotland match before settling down to see the dragons lay siege to Fortress Twickenham.

In fact the England/Wales match was not so much a siege in the first half as a drive across the drawbridge, through the portcullis and then figuring how to bring down the keep.

Hopefully that will not be too difficult, after all the Welsh are renowned as miners and in days of yore it was miners who got in under the keep to really undermine the opposition.

Meanwhile we will let that play its course while I try to fathom out what happened to Scotland when they played France. They had gone in at the half in a strong position but the second half was a scrappy game from both.

Despite most of the 40 minutes being spent kicking the ball from one half to the other France did manage to get in a try which Scotland attempted to expunge with a very late reply.

It looked as though they had succeeded with a last minute try but after the referee spent a long time mulling it over with the TMO the decision fell in France’s favour.

If they had spent less time kicking the ball into their opponents’ arms, for it just to be kicked back, and instead grasped the ball and run with it the result would have been very different.

I was brought up on rugby as an amateur sport, with men from all walks of life playing the game because they loved it and had their weekend fun before getting back to work on Monday as a doctor, or a consultant, or an insurance rep.

If they got injured they’d work it off to be back playing the next weekend. If it was more serious they’d miss a bit of training and playing time but it didn’t affect the income from their proper job.

The problems came when they started to put money into the game, paying the players until it reached a point when an injury could cost them real money. Well wouldn’t you be inclined not to take as many risks?

Back to Twickenham and despite our best efforts to blow the fortress’ keep to smithereens we ended up just one fuse short of the big blast.

At least Wales played well in both halves against an English team which played better than it had against the Italians.

This is a young Welsh team which still has lessons to learn.

I doubt they could now whip Ireland France and Italy and ending up champions this year but we could be enjoying a Grand Slam in 2025 as a great present for my 75th birthday.

The Fish

by Marianne Moore

wade
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting ash heaps;
opening and shutting itself like

an
injured fan.
The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there for the submerged shafts of the

sun
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness,
into the crevices -
in and out, illuminating

the 
turquoise sea
of bodies. The water drives a wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff whereupon the stars

pink
rice grains, ink-
bespattered jelly-fish, crabs like green
lilies, and submarine
toadstools slide on each other.

All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice -
all the physical features of

accident - lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it, the chasm side is

dead.
Repeated
evidence has proved that it can live
on what can not revive
its youth. The sea grows old on it.