Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . 

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . . 

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . 

I am water rushing to the wellhead, 
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . 

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . . 

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . . 

I am there in the basket of fruit 
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening 
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . . 

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

--Jane Kenyon

A poem about poetry to end our month-long celebration...

Somewhere or Other

Somewhere or other there must surely be
    The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet -- never yet -- ah me!
    Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
    Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
    That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
    With just a wall, a hedge between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
    Fallen on a turf grown green.

--Christina Rosetti

Heaney Two-fer

The Diviner


Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick
That he held tight by the arms of the V:
Circling the terrain, hunting the pluck 
Of Water, nervous, but professionally


Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.
The rod jerked with precise convulsions,
Spring water suddenly broadcasting
Through a green hazel its secret stations.


The bystanders would ask to have a try.
He handed them the rod without a word.
It lay dead in their grasp till nonchalantly
He gripped expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.


Scaffolding


Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;


Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.


And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.


So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me


Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.


If you are interested in poetry, and don't know Seamus Heaney, acquaint yourself. His use of language, both figurative and literal, is utterly incredible. You won't regret it. 

Sonnet CXLI

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that love what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards my pain.

--Shakespeare

I'm fairly sure that only Shakespeare could make, "You're not cute, but I love you anyway" sound this good...

Let us go then

through the trip
wired minefield

hand in hand
eyes for nothing

but ourselves
alone

undaunted by
the traps and pits

of wasted land
until

you stop
and pluck

a stem
of eyebright

--Ciaran Carson

Abduction

The fairy woman walked

into my poem.

She closed no door

She asked no by-your-leave.

Knowing my place

I did not tell her to go.

I played the woman-of-no-welcomes trick

and said:

"What's your hurry, here's your hat.

Pull up to the fire,

eat and drink what you get --

but if I were in your house

as you are in my house

I'd go home straight away

but anyway, stay."

She stayed. Got up and pottered

round the house. Dressed the beds,

washed the ware. Put the dirty clothes

in the washing machine.

When my husband came home for his tea

he didn't know what he had wasn't me.

For I am in the fairy field

in lasting darkness

and frozen with the cold there,

dressed only in white mist.

And if he wants me back

there is a solution -- 

get the sock of a plough

smear it with butter

and redden it with fire.

And then let him go to the bed

where lies the succubus

and press her with red iron.

"Push it into her face,

burn and brand her,

and as she fades before your eyes

I'll materialise,

and as she fades before your eyes

I'll materialise."

--Nuala ni Dhomhnaill, trans. by Michael Hartnett (Original poem written in Irish)

Celtic folk tales are rife with stories of faerie abduction, changelings, and situations like this: a faerie taking over your life. The solution usually was violent, and not always effective. You have to watch out for faeries; they're mischievous...

The Tree

The fairy woman came
with a Black & Decker.
She cut down my tree.
I watched her like a fool
cut the branches one by one.

My husband came in in the evening.
He saw the tree.
He was furious -- no wonder.
He said: "Why didn't you stop her?
What's she up to?
What would she think
If we got a Black & Decker
went to her house
and cut down one of the trees
in her garden?"

She came back next morning.
I was still breakfasting.
She asked me what my man had said.
I told her
He said: "Why didn't you stop her?
What's she up to?
What would she think
If we got a Black & Decker
went to her house
and cut down one of the trees
in her garden?"

"Oh," she said, "that's very interesting."
With a stress on the 'very'
and a ring from the '--ing'
though she spoke very quietly.
Well, that was my day,
such as it was,
turned upside down.

The bottom fell out of my stomach
and as if I got a good kick
or a punch in the guts
a weakness came over me
that made me so feeble
I couldn't lift a finger
for three whole days.
Unlike the tree
which happily, healthily grew away.

--Nuala ni Dhomhnaill, trans. by Michael Hartnett (Original poem written in Irish)