Seasonal greeting as the year gets ready to turn

New Year Resolve by May Sarton

 

The time has come
To stop allowing the clutter
To clutter my mind
Like dirty snow,
Shove it off and find
Clear time, clear water.

Time for a change,
Let silence in like a cat
Who has sat at my door
Neither wild nor strange
Hoping for food from my store
And shivering on the mat.

Let silence in.
She will rarely speak or mew,
She will sleep on my bed
And all I have ever been
Either false or true
Will live again in my head.

For it is now or not
As old age silts the stream,
To shove away the clutter,
To untie every knot,
To take the time to dream,
To come back to still water.

 

from Collected Poems 1930-1993

photo Rose Cook

 

Russell Brand talks about Revolution – published on Poetry 24 site today

93219466FM005_Russell_Brand

 

Russell Brand talks about Revolution

His mother must be proud after all,

fighting addiction isn’t easy. Clean now,

his intelligence, quick as fish, darts fast.

Her brave boy, thrown helter skelter bipolar,

finds ground.

Fear travels quickly, love a little slower.

Expressive, misunderstood,

the cynic’s clown,

the people’s narcissist

but bearing witness,

sharing truth.

Do you step up?

poem by Rose Cook

published on http://poetry-24.blogspot.co.uk/

http://www.theguardian.com/membership/video/2014/nov/12/russell-brand-on-revolution-democracy-and-vivienne-westwood-video

 

photo from http://www.dudesnews.com/2013/11/02/the-revolution-will-be-televised-russell-brand-on-bbcs-newsnight/

Now this is poetry…Galway Kinnell

‘A poem expresses one’s most private feelings, and these turn out to be the feelings of everyone else as well.’ Galway Kinnell

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

Galway Kinnell, 19272014
For I can snore like a bullhorn 
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman 
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, 
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house 
and he will wrench himself awake 
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together, 
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, 
familiar touch of the long-married, 
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens, 
the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, 
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other 
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, 
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, 
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

My poem published in The Broadsheet as part of the Exeter Poetry Festival October 2014

The Chalice and the Heart

 

He explained as clearly as he could

about the heart inside each vertebrae.

He drew and it was beautiful,

our spinal cord rising through a series of hearts.

 

One of mine is no longer a heart,

but a chalice, like a cocktail glass.

Eventually, it may shrink to the rune File:Runic letter algiz.svg

Algiz, the earth, which is also Z the end.