I really treasure this poem, it arrived softly, yet true.
Brocade by Jane Hirshfield
All day wondering
if I’ve become useless.
All day the osprey
white and black,
carrying
big dry sticks without leaves.
Late, I say to my pride,
You think you’re the feathered part
of this don’t you?
It’s summer and a kind person got in touch to ask for another copy of my book ‘Shedding Feathers’. She’s lent her first copy out to someone, but can’t remember who. So in way of celebrating her generosity, here is a poem from that book. ‘The Shoaling’ refers to the sudden beaching of whitebait that happens along our Start Bay coastline in August.
should you like a copy of ‘Shedding Feathers’ (published by Hen Run, Grey Hen Press £4) then do get in touch on my email: rosecook108@gmail.com
Enjoy the rest of your summer 🍉
So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.
Raymond Carver, “Happiness” from All of Us:The Collected Poems, copyright © by Tess Gallagher
I want to send out a big thank you to Joy Howard and her Grey Hen Press for these latest poetry anthologies and her generosity in including my poems in them.
They are available now at £5 each from http://www.greyhenpress.com
What a jolly cheerful poem ☺️
Instructions for My Funeral
My friend Anne has planned her funeral.
She wants bright colours,
All the colours of the rainbow,
Beach wear and party glitter,
Pink feather boas and dancing,
Cocktails and music and laughter,
Because, she says, ‘Life is a chase,
A dream; why not celebrate,
Obscure the hate,
Spread joy in the moment before it’s too late
To expose the beauty that lies deep within
Every pristine soul?’
Have you ever heard such bollocks?
I want sobbing at my funeral.
Uncontrollable sobbing.
Mourners dressed in black, sobbing,
In an austere church with such bad acoustics
That all you can hear is sobbing.
I want horses with those black tassels on their heads,
And I want the horses to look sad,
And if possible I want the horses to be sobbing, too.
I want dreary music, and just when it sounds
Like the dreary music is about to…
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