First Known When Lost: "When The Wind And The Light Are Working Off Each Other"

First Known When Lost: "When The Wind And The Light Are Working Off Each Other"

Excerpt:

...At times, yellow shafts of sunlight angle down through the ragged, traveling clouds...

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west

Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,

In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,

Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,

Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads

Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.

Useless to think you'll park and capture it

More thoroughly.  You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.   ~Seamus Heaney, The Spirit Level (Faber and Faber 1996).

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Addendum: "Insider's Notes"

"The Trees" return each year:  "Yet still the unresting castles thresh/In fullgrown thickness every May." ~Philip Larkin

                   When all the reeds are swaying in the wind
                   How can you tell which reeds the otters bend?  ~Michael Longley, Selected Poems

                        

                                               Howard Phipps, "Footbridge at Bishopstone"

The riverbed, dried-up, half-full of leaves.
Us, listening to a river in the trees.   ~Seamus Heaney, The Haw Lantern

I fall asleep to the sound of rain,
But there is no rain in the desert.
The leaves of the trader's little cottonwoods
Turn, turn in the wind.        ~Janet Lewis, Kayenta, Arizona, May 1977

"Now -- for a breath I tarry/Nor yet disperse apart --/Take my hand quick and tell me,/What have you in your heart."     Houseman’s ‘A Shropshire Lad’

"Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."  ~Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”

 .......

O no, it is an ever fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown although his height be taken.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:            ~Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.

And happy lines on which, with starry light,

Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,

And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,

Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.

And happy rhymes! bathed in the sacred brook  ~Edmund Spenser, Amoretti

VII
In the last minutes he said more to her
Almost than in all their life together.
“You’ll be in New Row on Monday night
And I’ll come up for you and you’ll be glad
When I walk in the door . . . Isn’t that right?”
His head was bent down to her propped up head.
She could not hear but we were overjoyed
He called her good and girl. Then she was dead,
The searching for a pulsebeat was abandoned
And we all knew one thing by being there.
The space we stood around had been emptied
Into us to keep, it penetrated
Clearances that suddenly stood open.
High cries were felled and a pure change happened.  ~~Seamus Heaney,’Clearances’

Everything Is Going To Be All Right
How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.  ~Derek Mahon
“It was one of those unwonted days (we all have them) when you realize at the time that you will never forget what passes.  This realization is accompanied (for me, at least) by a poignant pang.  At what?  You know: the relentless and remorseless march of time and all that.
But enough.  The day will never disappear….”

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Sorrow can be a home to stand on so
And see far to: another earth, a place I might know…~Fanny Howe

-----------------

Afternoon Tea
Please you, excuse me, good five-o'clock people,
   I've lost my last hatful of words,
And my heart's in the wood up above the church steeple,
   I'd rather have tea...

Oh! what do they matter, my dears, to the stars

   Or the glow-worms in the lanes!

I'd rather lie under the tall elm-trees,
   With old rooks talking loud overhead,
To watch a red squirrel run over my knees,

... 

And wonder what feathers the wrens will be taking
   For lining their nests next Spring;
Or why the tossed shadow of boughs in a great wind shaking
   Is such a lovely thing.                   ~Charlotte Mew, Complete Poems

........... 

                . . . For the rooms grow farther, leaving
Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear
Of taken breath, and them crouching below
Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving
How near it is.  This must be what keeps them quiet:
The peak that stays in view wherever we go
For them is rising ground.                 ~Philip Larkin
....

Daydream

One day people will touch and talk perhaps easily,
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as sunlight,
And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted,
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers,
Unfurl, uncurl like seaweed returned to the sea,
And work will be simple and swift as a seagull flying,
And play will be casual and quiet as a seagull settling,
And the clocks will stop, and no-one will wonder or care or notice,
And people will smile without reason, even in the winter, even in the rain.
~A. S. J. Tessimond, Voices in a Giant City (1947).

There Will Be a Talking
There will be a talking of lovely things
there will be cognizance of the seasons,
there will be men who know the flights of birds,
in new days there will be love for women:
we will walk the balance of artistry.
And things will have a middle and an end,
and be loved because being beautiful.
.......................

I should go with him in the gloom,
   Hoping it might be so.  ~Thomas Hardy

...

And suddenly I am weeping, weeping for the old men and the abused children, for the people so alone they never get prayed for, for Sister Georgina, for myself. I've tried so hard to "get" it by being good: praying the "right" way, giving up coffee, being mature and responsible and accepting about my cancer. But nobody ever "gets" it. It's not about being good, it's about being vulnerable. It's not about being perfect, it's about becoming human. It's not about pretending that cancer don't suck in every possible way, it's about consenting to bear my suffering in a desperate, keening, crawling-on-bloody-knees kind of love for my brothers and sisters, just as, in some mysterious way, my brothers and sisters bear their suffering for me.

~Heather King

She left without leaving a number
Said she needed to clear her mind
He figured she'd gone back to Austin
Cause she talked about it all the time
It was almost a year before she called him up
3 rings and an answering machine is what she got

If it’s anybody else wait for the tone you know what to do and
P.S. if this is Austin I still love you....   ~Blake Shelton

..................

“Remembering your face, I see it here,
Eyes weary, unexpectant, unresigned.
Not wise, but self-composed and self-contained,
And not self-pitying, you knew how to give
And when to take and, waiting, not despair.
During bitter years, when fear and anger broke
Men without work or property to shadows
(My childhood’s world), you, like this living woman,
Endured, keeping your small space fresh and kind.”   ~Helen Pinkerton

 ..................

 

... the man’s life – his loneliness and ecstasies – moved her, sometimes, to tears.

Tongued with Fire

And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
                  They can tell you, being dead: the communication
                  Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.  

                       ~ T. S. Eliot, ‘Little Gidding’

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I looked inside “a red-orange rose in a box wrapped up in love somewhere other than the night.”  A tiny note tucked in tender rosy folds whispers,    “I love you and miss you terribly.”