Tagged: Poetry

Thinking about you…

I often think about you Sven
Or is it Anders, Björn or Christer?
Packing parachute in Gothenburg laundry room
Your face so very flustered

I returned to remove wet clothes
To get the drier going
There you were still packing
Looking worried and startled

So I wonder – hope! – if one day
When the time to jump was near
You opted to stay in the aeroplane
Paralysed with faulty-chute fear

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No biomarkers

There are no biomarkers
We can’t treat it
Not so! Said the psychiatrist
Here, we have tears
They are easy to treat
This pill dries them up

But that’s treating the
Symptom not the cause
Not so! Said the psychiatrist
Crying is diagnosed by DSM
You are Crying if
You are crying

Stop crying, pleaded the psychiatrist
Giving her a hug.

In the life

My piece was pat and all ready to say,
She rose first. I threw my piece away.
        My well-turned stuff
        Was not so rough
As hers, but easy elegant and smooth.
        Beginning middle end
        It had and point
And aptly quoted prophet priest and poet.
        Hers was uncouth
        Wanting in art
Laboured scarce-audible and out of joint.
        Three times she lost the thread
And sitting left her message half unsaid.
        ‘Why then did thee throw it
        Into the discard?’
                Friend,
        It had head
        (Like this). Hers oh had heart.

Robert Hewison, 1965

The girl who brought the bees to trees

The girl who brought the bees to trees
She went her way in sun and rain
We could not know she’s military
A secret life, relief through pain

One early morn a mission called
Go east, go deep, but please return
A background check examined all
Her comrades prayed she’d not get burned

She thought about one lonely bee
Who upon being saved flew north in a dash
It filled her with a need to feel
The morning came too fast with a flash

Ignorance

Strange to know nothing, never to be sure
Of what is true or right or real,
But forced to qualify or so I feel,
Or Well, it does seem so:
Someone must know.

Strange to be ignorant of the way things work:
Their skill at finding what they need,
Their sense of shape, and punctual spread of seed,
And willingness to change;
Yes, it is strange,

Even to wear such knowledge – for our flesh
Surrounds us with its own decisions –
And yet spend all our life on imprecisions,
That when we start to die
Have no idea why.

—Philip Larkin

(For the FBI agent who, enquiring about a sister, asked "Who is in her network?")

Who is in my network
What links us to be exact?
Better to ask to understand the force
that cuts through rock the water’s course, 
and binding like to like
makes also opposites attract.

Who guides the earthworm underground, 
and makes the stubborn ants persist?
When wind and rain erode the land
who calls the root work to resist?
And what clandestine hand inscribed
the coded message in the seed?
Who masterminds the spider’s web
and plans the strategy of the weed?

What inspiration could invent 
the infrastructure of the vine. 
the grass revolt against cement,
the rebellion of the dandelion?
What force undermines the walls
to make then crack
or makes the branches of the tree 
when cut grow back?
Who conceals the passages between death and birth?
Who leads the revolution of the earth?

Who is in my network
What links us to be exact?
Better to ask to understand the force
that cuts through rock the water’s course, 
and binding like to like
makes also opposites attract.

Investigate the daisies for invasion of the lawn, 
or the ivy for trespass where it wants to grow.
Indict the sky for pouring out its rain,
contributing to the rivers overflow.
Arrest the seagull for unlawful flight,
impose a boundary to confine the sea,
demand a mountain modify its height,
dare my woman-spirit to break free.

Susan Saxe

[Spotted thanks to Jamie.]