Monday, 15 February 2010


This ought to be two poems, side by side, reflecting one another, but blogger won't allow me to improve its appearance here (grr!).
Said I: Who are you                                   Said she: Who are you
sweet, joyous stranger?                               who looks on me
Who stares back at me,                               here from coolness and water?
a mirror of persuasion?                                This morning, more than most
Where did you come from?                          she is her father’s daughter of time and space,

Were you born on light in silver dawn?         she is ready now to hear the truth and
She who pushes soft tresses back,                 take off her face of heaven…for she
with hands like holy, waxen flax                  is older. The voice in her eyes grows
and dresses here each day,                           ever colder as she marches with the
with such life-consuming courage                 soldiers of life. She has known the cuts
and fire                                                    of several knives, and she has survived –
that it eats her blushing face?                      ever still as she was. Ever just
Will you not take your place                      as wonderful to look at, and ever plagued by
in darkness                                              demon cats, who brought her chains long ago
and bliss                                                 and fed her grains of sand. They shattered her
as you belong with those cherry-lips,           dreams and plans of fairy-castles;
my devil? And stop,                                 and taught her just one thing -
teasing my escape?                                   she could sing of freedom aloud,

Brush those glorious clouds                       yet throb with the wounds of battle,
from your nape                                         for the clouds would always
and smile, child –                                    be there
I’d give anything                                     to hide
to be so free.                                           her chafing, iron shackles.

1 comment:

  1. This was really something. Not only do they read well separately, they always read well the entire way across. Very Mod-Shakespearean.