To Wake Up In The Morning And Be Happy For No Reason At All




To Wake Up In The Morning And Be Happy For No Reason At All


There’s a kind of dripping thing

called love. I find I have done

everything to avoid it,

but let there be love as sturdy

as a white enamel bin filled with bread,

something used absolutely every day,

the kitchen table, teapot, kettle.


Let it be as sacred as a cellar door,

sideways as scullery.

liminal as doorstep,

wide as wind in the trees,

as ruby rich and spreading

as the copper beech outside.


Let it be ours, fierce in its telling,

soft in its showing

appreciated for its very existence

for here, this is heart.



photo and poem Rose Cook

Rose Cook – four poems

Originally posted on Clear Poetry:

Woman and Alsatian
from a photograph by Keith Arnatt

She seems just about to move
having agreed,
one hand comforts the dog,
buried into the fur behind his ears,
but he doesn’t like my camera.

I saw them from across the street
and followed, attracted by
the slick pvc of her coat,
which gave her a beatnik look,
though practical too, I can see that.

Her dog lollops on oversized feet.
He will grow quickly,
they already work as a team.
What’s his name?
I position them by a blank wall.

Look at me. They are both unsure.
She wonders why I am interested in her –
ordinary, out for a walk, hair a mess.
She half smiles, tense. His name is Timber.
The dog barks.


The man on the train is on his phone,
telling someone that he needs help.
And I thought of you.

He has found…

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spring equinox – solar eclipse – super moon day

The Real Work by Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.



photo Rose Cook

for International Women’s Day


On Bringing Up Girls



Aren’t you going to clip her wings?

they said, That’s usual for a girl her age, isn’t it?

We said we didn’t want to clip her wings

and they watched our little daughter grow

bright and strong, then they said


Aren’t you going to tie her feet? That’s

advisable for a young girl, isn’t it?

We said we didn’t want to tie her feet

so they saw a young woman growing

clear and brave. Before they could say anything else

we said, Now it is time to teach her to fly.

They fell back.


They are teaching her to fly, they repeated,

teaching her to fly.

How wonderful, murmured their daughters,

and how interesting.



poem and photograph Rose Cook

poem from Notes From a Bright Field – Rose Cook (pub Cultured Llama 2013)

On Seeing and Loving


Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard     –     Mary Oliver

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes – when he lifts their soft lids –
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder –
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and the dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear –

it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
down the little aluminium
ladder of his scream –
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its house of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

photo Rose Cook