February brings the beginning with cold snowdrops

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Snowdrop                                 by Ted Hughes

 
Now is the globe shrunk tight
Round the mouse’s dulled wintering heart.
Weasel and crow, as if moulded in brass,
Move through an outer darkness
Not in their right minds,
With the other deaths. She, too, pursues her ends,
Brutal as the stars of this month,
Her pale head heavy as metal.

 

 

photo Rose Cook

My deep gratitude to life, to poetry, welcome the new year in with thanks and hope

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Poetry                         by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

 

photo Rose Cook

December… wishing you peace

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December

 

 

this is the time of ice, of hungry birds,

give broken bread so they may come –

crows slip on the tops of walls,

puffed pigeon risk a cat-watched lawn

 

everything

( whisper it )

is about

loving

and

not-loving

 

this is a time of dilemmas

whether to give or not,

does it matter or not,

looking for meaning

 

everything

( remember it )

is about loving

and not-loving.

 

 

Poem and photograph Rose Cook