A site I used to post to had a somewhat unhelpful, not to say discouraging,  line when you had posted a poem and nobody had commented it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There is no comment submitted by members.”
Nobody bothers; nobody cares;
nobody gives a hoot how my work fares
– or they mean to say something, but no-one remembers.

The fire of my passion is reduced to grey embers;
the most piercing of glances just meet with dull stares.
There is no comment submitted by members.
Nobody bothers; nobody cares.

Like summers of hope fading into Septembers,
or flowers I’ve grown being smothered with tares,
I search and I search but, despite all my prayers,
I read once again, with a chill like December’s,
“There is no comment submitted by members.”

Andrew was a rather dreamy 8-year-old boy of average intelligence.  I had explained what syllables are, and given examples, then asked the kids to write a short poem with 1,2,3,4,5,4,3,2,1 syllables, to make a diamond shape.  Several of them didn't get it, and counted words instead, or just made the lines look the right shape.  This was Andrew's effort.

Please
little man
sing me a song
the sweetest song
that has ever been
with a harp
or a fiddle.
Sing a song
about the beautiful princess
or the sad puppet
or the thunder giant.
Sing me a song.

Would any of you have told him he had it wrong?  He had started off with an idea of the shape, but then the poetry had taken over.  I told him it was a brilliant poem - because it was - and not to worry about the syllables.

I threw a pair of socks away today,
an old Fathers' Day present,
with a design of a comical animal
and "You're the best Dad".
But they were old, the socks,
certainly over ten years,
and though I hadn't worn them much,
the years take their toll on the fabric.
Only an old pair of socks
with a big hole in the heel,
but another link to the daughter
who died ten years ago,
and the love she gave.

Free spirit, you were never really "my" child,
though it pleased me to think of you so.
Only for a time you allowed me
to be familiar with you, share some of your life,
some of your feelings.
Now it is time for you to leave,
and I must not regret your going, although I love you,
not regret the letting go, because I love you.
Then the part of you that once, long ago,
imperceptibly grew inside my heart will stay forever,
and you can always be,
in any sense that you ever were,
"mine".

The oxygen that we breathe
in
and
out
every minute of every day
is not lost
but shared
re-used
recycled
recirculated.

If we are in the same room –
or sealed hermetically for hours
in the cabin of a plane –
we breathe continuously
the same air,
the oxygen goes from me to you
and back again.

But air currents,
prevailing winds,
the jet stream,
cyclones and anti-cyclones,
all move the atmosphere further
and further still,
so that even if we are
on opposite sides of the globe,
separated by oceans,
it is a statistical certainty
that I still breathe in
atoms of oxygen
that were once
inside
you.

Do they carry your thoughts,
your feelings,
your poetry to me,
or mine to you?
Who can say?
I can but hope it,
as I thank you
for keeping me alive.

The painter adds more layers on
until he thinks his picture's done.
The sculptor has to chip away
until there comes to light of day
his vision from inside the stone.
Novelists too pile details on,
but poetry works a different way.
The poet chips the dross away.

To repay you all the love you've shown,
what can I say to give you peace
from all the troubles you have known?
What can I do to bring release?

What can I say to give you peace
during the day and through the night?
What can I do to bring release
from all the horrors in your sight?

During the day and through the night
I want to shield you with my love
from all the horrors in your sight,
my darling girl, my rose, my dove.

I want to shield you with my love
from all the troubles you have known,
my darling girl, my rose, my dove,
to repay you all the love you've shown.

(I don't really hate pantoums, but once, when I wrote about the rules for repeating forms like pantoums and villanelles, one girl commented "I hate pantoums and villanelles. I guess I get bored easily." But this only provoked me to write a Pantoum using her words, just a little edited.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hate pantoums and villanelles
because I'm very easily bored
when a poem goes on and on, and tells
the things that have been said before.

Because I'm very easily bored,
I get impatient for lots of stuff.
The things that have been said before
don't need repeating. Once is enough.

I get impatient, for lots of stuff
I get to hear throughout the day
don't need repeating. Once is enough
to understand what you have to say.

I get to hear throughout the day
the same old news again and again.
To understand what you have to say
should not be hard. Intelligent men

and women don't need those extra lines
when a poem goes on and on, and tells
what it's said before, too many times.
I hate pantoums – and villanelles!

.
"I hate sunsets and flowers.  I loathe the sea; the sea is formless."

I hate sunsets and flowers;
I loathe the rolling sea.
What matter sunshine or showers?
None of it matters to me.

I loathe the rolling sea,
Where once we used to roam.
None of it matters to me.
No colours, no waves, no foam.

Where once we used to roam
It's formless now and bare.
No colours, no waves, no foam,
Because you are not there.

It's formless now and bare
Everywhere I go.
Because you are not there
Your garden's full of snow.  

Everywhere I go,
What matter sunshine or showers?
Your garden's full of snow.  
I hate sunsets and flowers.

All of these were at the Tate;
I know they were, for I took notes:
The plaster cast of an empty space;
View of the Thames with Pleasure Boats.

I know they were (for I took notes)
on open view, but Art? Well, maybe.
View of the Thames with Pleasure Boats;
Mother Feeding Crying Baby

on open view, but Art? Well, maybe.
– unless they take me for a fool.
Mother Feeding Crying Baby;
Man in Orange Shirt, on Stool.

– Unless they take me for a fool,
Damien Hurst and Jackson *******.
Man in Orange Shirt, on Stool,
saying, "What a load of -------s!"

Damien Hurst and Jackson *******;
Couple Drinking at a Bar,
saying, "What a load of -------s,
"A plywood model of a car!"

Couple Drinking at a Bar;
Monet's Waterlilies, and
a plywood model of a car;
fruit decaying on a stand.

Monet's Waterlilies, and
People on an Escalator;
fruit decaying on a stand.
No, skip that one; we'll come back later.

People on an Escalator;
a film of two men standing still.
No, skip that one; we'll come back later.
I'm certain that they'll be there still.

A film of two men standing still;
the plaster cast of an empty space.
I'm certain that they'll be there still.
All of these were at the Tate.

There was so much more
     that we could have said and done,
          but we said goodbye.

Nobody's perfect,
but you come pretty close.
Or if that's too many words,
just stop at four.
("Nobody's perfect but you.")

That's what I said at first,
but then I thought – No.
It's literally true.
Nobody
is
perfect.

Especially you.

Because the more I get to know you,
the more imperfections I find,
and your imperfections
are what makes you ...
... well, you.

And loving you
as I do,
perfect or imperfect,
then I love your imperfections.
They are, after all, what make me feel
you are perfect.

Why can't there be some language
that says what I really want to say?

Ah, but there is one.
There is such a language.
It's Poetry.

I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."

And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."

Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"

I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"

I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.

My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."

I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."

And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.

My mother was the tenth
of eleven children,
all born, on average,
two years apart.
So her mother,
- my grandmother -
was, as far as I was concerned,
always old.

She had pink, wrinkly cheeks,
like an apple that’s been kept too long,
and, to go with the apple cheeks,
she smiled a lot.

I had heard of Granny Smith apples,
and assumed they were like my gran,
pink and wrinkled,
but when I found out
they were shiny
and green,
I was deeply shocked.

Fair enough,
green was her favourite colour,
so that wasn't too bad,
but . . . shiny!
I never really got over the shock,
and, however long ago it was,
I still can't quite forgive them for that.

As autumn weaves its spell and colours change,
long days of summer fade into the past
and spring's soft green is but a memory.
The leaves, so lately fallen from the trees,
shrivelled and brown, now lie upon the earth.
The morning chill brings hint of frosts to come
while pale sun weakly shines, and sets too soon.
As weeks go by and days grow shorter yet
winter moves on. Then slowly fails the light,
and soon enough will come the longest night.

I received a message from you
but when I clicked on Reply
my predictive text
trying to be helpful
offered me a choice
of three words
to start with

I  You  The

not an impressive option
you might think
but on reflection
"I"
had "You"
in the centre of my mind
and for a robot
guessing
what I wanted to say
two out of three wasn’t bad

In wine is truth, but truth is sometimes hurtful.
If I hurt you, I never meant it so.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,
and what's said can't be unsaid - this I know.

It's best to tell the truth and shame the Devil.
What might have happened is non-history.
So seize the moment, say what needed saying.
In wine is truth,
     and the truth shall set you free.

Why does a cow say moo, Daddy?
  How many leaves has a tree?
Why am I smaller than you, Daddy?
  How does food turn into me?

Why is an elephant big, Daddy?
  And why is an ant so small?
Why can't a cat be a pig, Daddy?
  Can't you answer my questions at all?

How do puddles see their reflection, Daddy?
  Have unicorns ever been?
And, not that there's any connection, Daddy,
  Why is a tangerine?

I've puzzled as hard as I can, Daddy,
  But why can't I go to the moon?
Will I know it all when I'm a man, Daddy?
  Will I be grown up soon?

I know that the sky can be red, Daddy,
  So why can't the sun be green?
And the thoughts that go round in my head, Daddy,
  How do I know what they mean?

Where does yesterday go, Daddy?
  I don't mean to ask out of turn,
But with so many things I don't know, Daddy,
  How else can a little boy learn?

Two
hundred
ways
in Sanskrit
of saying
r a i n b o w
and among that richness one
that would perfectly describe
the magical light that fleetingly
shone from your face as,
tears welling in your eyes,
you turned to me
and smiled.

A while ago, I posted a number of poems with links to Youtube "videos" - except they are in fact still pictures with a recording of me reading. Because I posted them to another site they aren't available any more without going to YouTube.  I'd be interested if anyone would like to comment here.

  1/ Reflection -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXrSZpBg2WI
  2/ Guard of Honour -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aw-Z-SmfP6I
  3/ Golden Wedding -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-SZFvaHnEQ
  4/ Varanasi -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nh6FKZDKd0
  5/ Questions -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmfCKk48EG8
  6/ Remnants - Auschwitz -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8cIXenq9GY
  7/ Restless day -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2kR9ZlEa6s
  8/ Invitation -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4syNSdtgQ0
  9/ Insides -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2D1sRadWe8
10/ Sleepless Night -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2D1sRadWe8
11/ Unknown River -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mk6Y5nNzIdU
12/ The First Time -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=kIzzFJdj3DM
13/ Word Game -- www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGDioDYXex4

My ultimate ambition in life
is to be recycled. When I die
I shall not be put
with the newspapers, plastic bottles,
glass, cans, batteries
and aluminium foil
into the box to be collected
on alternate Tuesdays.
That is not dignified
for a human,
and besides, it is unhygienic.
But recycled I will be
into soil and air,
beetle, centipede and blackbird,
and the blossom
that every year comes
and fades.
Yes,
I'll be back.

[Inspired by a photo by Munia Khan posted on Facebook]

I gave you red roses
as a sign of my love,
and now they lie there,
cast down on the pavement.

Red petals, green leaves,
faded and dry,
all life gone from them,
shrivelled and dead,
like the love that you once said
you felt for me.
Only thorns are left
to remind me of your heartlessness.

Is this what my love means to you?
What did I do
to change your mind?
Is there no hope for me any more?

Today it is snowing,
and redwings are in the holly tree.

Yesterday it snowed
a soft, wet snow
that clung to the bare twigs
of the trees in the park
turning them into mounds
of silver filigree.
The holly tree in my garden,
scarlet berries, dark green leaves,
and branches covered in white
was a picture fit for a Christmas card.

Today also it is snowing,
and redwings are in the holly tree.
They come to my garden
in hard winters
looking for food,
and the berried twigs I would have cut
to decorate the house
will not last long.
A score of beautiful Scandinavian thrushes,
flashing their red underwings
as they flutter in the branches,
will finish the harvest today.

It may not snow tomorrow,
but the frost will preserve the snow
that lies on the trees and gardens.
The redwings will find food for a few days more
from the crab-apples in the back garden
before they move on,
looking for their next meal.
Sorry as I am to lose my holly berries
– for I shall have none to decorate the house –
I shall be sorrier to lose my lovely visitors.
But today it is snowing,
and redwings are in the holly tree.

Still waters, deep,
surface like glass reflecting green above;
and below are trees, sky,
shadows, leaves, sunlight,
moving and motionless.
Here silent images shimmer now,
and - air breathing suddenly - break.
Unbidden feelings confuse
reality and fantasy.
Which is which?
Fantasy and reality confuse;
feelings unbidden break, suddenly breathing air;
and now shimmer images,
silent here, motionless
and moving....
(sunlight leaves shadows).
Sky, trees are
below - and above -
green, reflecting, glass-like surface.
Deep waters, still.

Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the chemical
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”

[introductory note: This is not a conversation. Alternate segments are A/ statements made by a Spanish teacher in a lesson, and B/ the reaction of a young man listening but interpreting in a different way as he is entranced by a girl in the class]

As far as actions in the past are concerned,
if you give the matter your attention,
you will recall various tenses:
the Past Continuous, the Past Definite,
the Imperfect, the Perfect, and the Pluperfect,
which we might call the more-than-Perfect;
we need not concern ourselves at the moment
with the Past Anterior.

I, at the moment, am not concerned with the past at all,
for you are very much Present, and your action
of brushing the hair from your cheek
requires all my attention.

Take, for example, this sentence –
“I was looking for a word, and found it
in a dictionary which I had.” You will notice
the action of looking for the word
extends over a period of time, and is Continuous.

What I notice is the luminosity of your skin
where the sunlight strikes your shoulder, for in my case
the action of looking at you is Continuous.

The action of finding the word is complete
and fixed in time,
and requires the Past Definite...

And I observe how beautifully complete you are,
and I am fixed in this moment
which is now and forever.

...while the action of possessing a dictionary,
in this sense, has no beginning and no end,
leading us to the Past Imperfect.

Your eyes, at which I continue to gaze,
are more than Perfect, having depths in them
which seem to lead towards an Indefinite Future.
And the Past Anterior and the rest of them
do not concern me at all,
for you see me looking at you,
and the corners of your eyes crinkle
as you smile at me, and in my case
the action of being in love with you
has no beginning and no end.

Ready to unfold from dawn's cold grey mist,
She'll know to follow nature's sweet path,
To reveal the beauty that only she hath,
Accepting the light that she cannot resist.

She opens with colours that call tender touch,
A spiral of petals that twist from the core,
Silky pages that open in her moment, not before.
Who knew that a rose could hold so much?

Come close and breathe the sweet perfume she holds,
The promise of nectar hidden inside,
The honey she gives, her treasure, her prize,
More fragrant than incense, more precious than gold.

Her petals now open, but the bud always there,
Holding her strong, yet so fragile and fair.

You took yourself away from the crowd
to the dark sea's edge. Alone and silent
you stood watching the waves.
I could not know how big your thoughts were.
I only remember your eyes
and the night
and the sea.

[Please read the note at the bottom of the page. It should help.]*

That night
the beach was full of fires,
and the waves rolled in mysterious,
foam-laden,
from the ancient lands.
And on the beach
full of fires and magic
we burned our paper wishes,
for that night they might even come true.
Then, because we were unwilling to wait
the last few minutes, we ran
a little before midnight
into the mysterious, ancient, pagan sea
and submerged ourselves in the foam.
You rose up,
shouting amid the waves
with the joy of that night.
When fireworks shot into the sky,
and some, falling to the sea,
exploded there again
to shoot from the very waves,
you also leapt up, shouting
with the energy of that magic night.
And later, when we were almost
the last remaining in the sea,
we went up onto the beach
full of fires and love.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Aquella noche
la playa estaba llena de hogueras,
y las olas se sucedían misteriosas,
cargadas de espuma,
de las antiguas tierras.
Y en la playa
llena de hogueras y magia
quemamos los deseos de papel
que esa noche aun se podrían realisar.
Pues, poco dispuestos a esperar
los últimos minutos, corrimos
antes de que sonaran las doce
a la mar misteriosa, antigua, pagana,
hundiéndonos en la espuma.
Surgisteis vosotras
gritando en medio de las olas
con la alegría de esa noche.
Cuando subieron fuegos al cielo,
y cuando algunos, cayendo al mar,
estallaron allí mismo
para subir de nuevo de las olas,
saltasteis tambien, gritando
con la energía de esta noche mágica.
Y al final, cuando éramos casi
los últimos en quedarnos en el mar,
salimos a la playa
llena de hogueras y amor.

That night
the beach was full of fires,
and the waves rolled in mysterious,
foam-laden,
from the ancient lands.
And on the beach
full of fires and magic
we burned our paper wishes,
for that night they might even come true.
Then, because we were unwilling to wait
the last few minutes, we ran
a little before midnight
into the mysterious, ancient, pagan sea
and submerged ourselves in the foam.
You rose up,
shouting amid the waves
with the joy of that night.
When fireworks shot into the sky,
and some, falling to the sea,
exploded there again
to shoot from the very waves,
you also leapt up, shouting
with the energy of that magic night.
And later, when we were almost
the last remaining in the sea,
we went up onto the beach
full of fires and love.

I saw you last night
in your bath
playing
singing
preparing for bed
three years old

as the camera approached
I saw in close-up
to the depths of your eyes
your deep­­­
­­­­deep-brown eyes
and caught a glimpse
into your soul

but after hearing you sing
so innocent
so spontaneous
so free
so absolutely
so essentially
you  
I know that for me
Incy
Wincy
Spider
can never be the same again

So quiet now, the ripples
    lapping on the shore
scarcely disturb the silence:
    a whisper, no more.
    But who knows the power
the growing breakers may have
    in another hour?

(rondeau redoublé)

This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.

It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.

In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,

Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things "just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.

.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.

It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.

In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high.

Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.

Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.
.

The ground is covered with snow.
   There is ice on all the plants
      like stone flowers.
                                                (by Darren)

The frost is cold.
   Spiky blades of grass
       crackle under your feet.
                                                  (by Peter)

The sky is black,
   the moon shines on the ice,
      the ice is silver.
                                                    (by Sarah)

Zoe was a clever girl, and I wasn't surprised when she wanted to try a haiku-style piece, but it was even cleverer than I had expected, with a correct syllable count and a delightful punch-line.

Slow-worm in the grass
looks at me with beady eyes
and puts its tongue out.

(Note: the slow-worm is a legless lizard that looks like a small snake, locally quite common in England.)
I love the suggestion that the creature is being cheeky by putting its tongue out, while we all know - don't we? - that lizards do this to smell the air around them.

The rain makes everything fresh,
   the plants and the grass are like gold,
      the air is sparkling with joy
                                                           (by Sharon)

The rain is coming down.
   Look outside, everything is wet.
      The leaves glitter with the rain on them.
                                                           (by Tracey)

Rain makes the roof top wet,
   the grass is all wet and soggy,
      and mum cannot do the washing.
                                                        ­    (by Lee)

No more the picturebook Eskimo,
the modern Inuit have central heating,
snowmobiles, welfare; they do not need
to fashion harpoons from bone, wait all day
for seal to come to ice hole, drag the body
to a home they have built from snow.

Once they lived with cold
and the creatures of the cold,
fish, seal, and white bear, familiar
if not friends, the snow itself
almost alive in its moods and movements,
falling as flakes, powder, clumps,
floating, flying, dazzling, stinging,
covering, drifting, compacting to ice.
Snow informed their lives;
one word was not enough.

Our life from infancy to grave
is shaped by love, comforting, calming,
thrilling, unsettling, dazzling, stinging,
covering, drifting, compacting to ....

Seventeen words for snow,
How many ways to say I love you?

If I seek your monument, it is only
everywhere.
The violet and the nightingale
and the rainbow all remind me,
even the wild strawberries, though they
happened long ago.
All are part of you,
being in that part of my mind
which is yours.
If I think about you, it is only
all the time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The inscription on the plaque in St Paul's Cathedral to the architect Sir Christopher Wren – "Si monumentum requiris circumspice" – translates as "If you seek his monument, look about you."

(a "last words" sonnet)

I cannot sleep tonight, and you know why.
You know how many weary hours I've lain
upon my bed and listened to the rain
lashing the window, and the mournful sigh
the wind makes. You have heard mine in reply.
I know you know the reason for my pain.
I know you know why, over and again,
I've wept out loud. I know you saw me cry
as I remembered carving on that tree
your name and mine. You were the only one
I needed then. You know, just as before,
how much I need you yet, but you have gone.
Only your spirit now still lives in me,
and I can never hope for any more.

The last words of the lines of this sonnet are the same as those of a sonnet by Edna St Vincent Millay, "What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why...".  There is no other connection between the two poems.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I cannot sleep tonight, and you know why.
You know how many weary hours I've lain
upon my bed and listened to the rain
lashing the window, and the mournful sigh
the wind makes. You have heard mine in reply.
I know you know the reason for my pain.
I know you know why, over and again,
I've wept out loud. I know you saw me cry
as I remembered carving on that tree
your name and mine. You were the only one
I needed then. You know, just as before,
how much I need you yet, but you have gone.
Only your spirit now still lives in me,
and I can never hope for any more.

I cannot sleep tonight, and you know why.
You know how many weary hours I've lain
upon my bed and listened to the rain
lashing the window, and the mournful sigh
the wind makes. You have heard mine in reply.
I know you know the reason for my pain.
I know you know why, over and again,
I've wept out loud. I know you saw me cry
as I remembered carving on that tree
your name and mine. You were the only one
I needed then. You know, just as before,
how much I need you yet, but you have gone.
Only your spirit now still lives in me,
and I can never hope for any more.

From the earth the stars
look like they could reach out to one another
and hold hands,
link fiery arms,
and share burning kisses.

But I imagine they're lonely,
just minute blinking lights to one another,
fires extinguished,
in a single breath,
flames dulled to nothing,
like pinched candles.

Can you feel what they do,
As they watch each brother die?
Not close enough to know,
not close enough to hold,
not close enough to save?

I can.

From the earth the stars
look like they could reach out to one another
and hold hands,
link fiery arms,
and share burning kisses.

But I imagine they're lonely,
just minute blinking lights to one another,
fires extinguished,
in a single breath,
flames dulled to nothing,
like pinched candles.

Can you feel what they do?
As they watch each brother die?
Not close enough to know,
not close enough to hold,
not close enough to save.

I have always known
that you feel it,

but now,
so do I.

The chair she sat in had seen better days,
any resemblance to a burnished throne
pure fantasy, for half its springs were gone,
cover and stuffing on their separate ways
towards disintegration; in the maze
of wire and fluff inside it a half-done
crossword, peanuts, a sweet, a dried-up bone
the dog had lost. In fact, to turn a phrase,
burning, not burnishing, was what it needed;
all thought of restoration or repair
into a distant hope had long receded.
Once it had been a comfortable chair,
the children's cosy nook, almost a friend,
but things wear out. The bonfire was its end.

~ ~ (on front of envelope)

La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Aux ALPES-MARITIMES (06).
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur

Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
(Son nom? C'est MONSIEUR LUCIEN COQUELLE.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.

I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.

~ ~ (and on the back)*

At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."

You want me to "give you space". If it were mine
I'd give you Space and Time, and all the rest,
those other dimensions I can only dream of,
and dream of sharing all of them with you.
Must I be satisfied with just one moment?
I looked (ah, once!) so far into your eyes,
and saw to depths where I could fall for ever;
your look, your touch spoke more to me than words.
One point in time, but such a radiant point
its light and joy filled all my universe,
and now you look away, withhold your touch.
So I must learn to ignore, deny my feelings.
How to deny what I felt from the start?
You ask for space. The space is in my heart.

The trees are coming into leaf;
the sap is pressing through the wood.
Violets, suspending disbelief
in spring, reveal now one by one
flowers of self-defining hue;
while butterflies with purple sheen
on flimsy wings try out the sun;
the sky's a half-forgotten blue.
Brash celandine invades the beds,
covers brown earth with green and gold;
bold daisies dare to show their heads.
The grass puts on a different green
and grows apace - I knew it would
(when was it mowed last? I forget)
and tangled branches really should
be pruned, but I've not got the heart
to execute or amputate;
in this profusion, who'd be so cold?
Though some day soon I'll have to start
(my neighbours think I've left it late)
I won't rush in and then regret -
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

S pring always comes, however slow it seems,
A nd on the trees at last from sleeping wood
N ew growth sprouts green where black twigs starkly stood.
D istant the winter now; like far-off dreams
R ecalling snow, white blossom-petals fall
A nd throw confetti down on warming earth.
H ere after months of sleep the signs of birth
A s daffodils ****** up and songbirds call.
N ow the breeze blows more gently on fresh grass,
S un gives its blessing, sky's a softer blue.
F rom greener woods then pipes the bold cuckoo.
O ur thoughts move on to summer. Spring will pass,
R ipe summer turn to fall, and winter, then,
D epend upon it, spring will come again.

The heat the sun created in the day
persists indoors into the night. I cannot sleep.
The full moon reflecting the sun's rays, modifying its strength,
now shines more coolly but no less clear,
and I, sitting outside in the silence of the night,
can relax in peace.

Then I catch sight of movement in your window.
You have switched on no light, but are illuminated
by the silvery moonglow, entranced, it seems,
by the quietness, by the peace
that has been brought to the garden.
And I in turn, entranced by your stillness,
your magical calm, can only observe
as you hum your secret to the moon.
Alas, the moment is ended far too soon,
but I'll never forget that lovely, beautiful tune.