Words and Pictures: Poems and Images

"Cynddylan on a Tractor" by R.S. Thomas Ah, you should see Cynddylan on a tractor. Gone the old look that yoked him to the soil, He's a new man now, part of the machine, His nerves of metal and his blood oil. The clutch curses, but the gears obey His least bidding, and lo, he's away Out of the farmyard, scattering hens. Riding to work now as a great man should, He is the knight at arms breaking the fields' Mirror of silence, emptying the wood Of foxes and squirrels and bright jays. The sun comes over the tall trees Kindling all the hedges, but not for him Who runs his engine on a different fuel. And all the birds are singing, bills wide in vain, As Cynddylan passes proudly up the lane. (Picture taken from a speeding Grand Central train from London to Wakefield.)

"A Blade of Grass" by Brian Patten You ask for a poem. I offer you a blade of grass. You say it is not good enough. You ask for a poem. I say this blade of grass will do. It has dressed itself in frost, It is more immediate Than any image of my making. You say it is not a poem, It is a blade of grass and grass Is not quite good enough. I offer you a blade of grass. You are indignant. You say it is too easy to offer grass. It is absurd. Anyone can offer a blade of grass. You ask for a poem. And so I write you a tragedy about How a blade of grass Becomes more and more difficult to offer, And about how as you grow older A blade of grass Becomes more difficult to accept.

CITY TREES The trees along this city street, Save for the traffic and the trains, Would make a sound as thin and sweet As trees in country lanes. And people standing in their shade Out of a shower, undoubtedly Would hear such music as is made Upon a country tree. Oh, little leaves that are so dumb Against the shrieking city air, I watch you when the wind has come,— I know what sound is there. Edna St. Vincent Millay

Charlie: 24 June 2002 - 27 April 2015. So it goes. "The Power of the Dog" (Rudyard Kipling) There is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; And when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. Buy a pup and your money will buy Love unflinching that cannot lie Perfect passion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear. When the fourteen years which Nature permits Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, And the vet's unspoken prescription runs To lethal chambers or loaded guns, Then you will find - it's your own affair, - But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear. When the body that lived at your single will, With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!), When the spirit that answered your every mood Is gone - wherever it goes - for good, You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart to a dog to tear! We've sorrow enough in the natural way, When it comes to burying Christian clay. Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent, Though it is not always the case, I believe, That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve; For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long - So why in Heaven (before we are there) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

"Ducks' Ditty" by Kenneth Grahame (from The Wind in the Willows) All along the backwater, Through the rushes tall, Ducks are a-dabbling, Up tails all! Ducks' tails, drakes' tails, Yellow feet a-quiver, Yellow bills all out of sight Busy in the river! Slushy green undergrowth Where the roach swim-- Here we keep our larder, Cool and full and dim. Everyone for what he likes! WE like to be Heads down, tails up, Dabbling free! High in the blue above Swifts whirl and call-- WE are down a-dabbling Up tails all!

Summer's almost here. It's getting warmer. Biggen this up by pressing Z. My country by Dorothea Mackellar The love of field and coppice Of green and shaded lanes, Of ordered woods and gardens Is running in your veins. Strong love of grey-blue distance, Brown streams and soft, dim skies I know, but cannot share it, My love is otherwise. I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror The wide brown land for me! The stark white ring-barked forests, All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted mountains, The hot gold hush of noon, Green tangle of the brushes Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree-tops, And ferns the warm dark soil. Core of my heart, my country! Her pitiless blue sky, When, sick at heart, around us We see the cattle die But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The drumming of an army, The steady soaking rain. Core of my heart, my country! Land of the rainbow gold, For flood and fire and famine She pays us back threefold. Over the thirsty paddocks, Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we gaze ... An opal-hearted country, A wilful, lavish land All you who have not loved her, You will not understand though Earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die, I know to what brown country My homing thoughts will fly.

In a Café She clasps the cup with both her hands, Over the rim her glance compels (A man forgets his hat, returns, The waitress leans against the shelves). And Botticelli, painting in the corner, Glances absorbed across a half-turned shoulder Thinking of lilies springing where she walks As now she rises, moves across the room, (The yawning waitress gathers up the stalks, The ash, the butt-ends and the dregs of tea). Pausing between the gesture and the motion, Lifting her hand to brush away her hair, He limns her in an instant, always there Between the doorway and the emphatic till With waves and angels, balanced on a shell. By Rosemary Dobson Press Z to see full size, please.

Note on Moonlight by Wallace Stevens The one moonlight, in the simple-colored night, Like a plain poet revolving in his mind The sameness of his various universe, Shines on the mere objectiveness of things. It is as if being was to be observed, As if, among the possible purposes Of what one sees, the purpose that comes first, The surface, is the purpose to be seen, The property of the moon, what it evokes. It is to disclose the essential presence, say, Of a mountain, expanded and elevated almost Into a sense, an object the less; or else To disclose in the figure waiting on the road An object the more, an undetermined form Between the slouchings of a gunman and a lover, A gesture in the dark, a fear one feels In the great vistas of night air, that takes this form, In the arbors that are as if of Saturn-star. So, then, this warm, wide, weatherless quietude Is active with a power, an inherent life, In spite of the mere objectiveness of things, Like a cloud-cap in the corner of a looking-glass, A change of color in the plain poet's mind, Night and silence disturbed by an interior sound. The one moonlight, the various universe, intended So much just to be seen --- a purpose, empty Perhaps, absurd perhaps, but at least a purpose, Certain and ever more fresh. Ah! Certain, for sure...

Early morning, Mandurah estuary, WA Cormorants, gulls, pelican. Press Z to biggen it up. "The common cormorant (or shag) Lays eggs inside a paper bag, You follow the idea, no doubt? It is to keep the lightning out. But what these unobservant birds Have never thought of, is that herds Of wandering bears might come with buns And steal the bags to hold the crumbs." (Poem by Christopher Isherwood)