Friday, 2 December 2016

Selected poems by Matthew Rice



Anomaly
(Auschwitz, 1943)
His careful, intimate hands
cupped like a pilgrim,
the man with the big smile,
carrying sweets for the children.

Three Hares
‘They were trees, and trees don’t weep or ache or shout.
And trees are all this poem is about.’ –
from ‘Two Trees’ by Don Paterson

What direction
that trio of brown hares took,
spirit-bounding across my sight,
has nothing so much to do with omen
as with any Boudica style tit for tat.
They disappeared around the cafe corner:
into mystery, perhaps,
but still wholly in the world –
and that was that.

(First published in Live Encounters, October 2016)

The Weight of a Rock
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and a very clear eye
Zbigniew Herbert, ‘Pebble’
The rock in my hand
is unconcerned by the human value
I place in its symbolism,
that the weight of a rock
is easier borne than the soul,
by being inside my fisted palm
or how light it feels to me.
It is impervious to the tightening of my fingers

and, when I open my hand,
the swelling emptiness it leaves.


MONICA WATSON
Today's poem.

Into my mirror has walked - Brian patten.





Into my mirror has walked
A woman who will not talk of love
Or of its subsidiaries,
But who stands there

Pleased with her own silence.
The weather has worn into her

All seasons known to me,
In one breast she holds
Evidence of forests,
In the other, of seas.

CARDBOARD CITY

Last night, while leisurely
reading on the toilet, I be-
came aware of a strange
heat against my bare right

Leg, caused by the card-
board side of Huggies
Diaper box, emblazoned
with the promise, Snug
and Dry. 

I immediately thought
of people living in card-
board cities; Of just
how grateful one
could be for card-
board warmth.

                ADRIAN RICE 


New blog, old on at https://poetryfree.blogspot.com.



GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS REWRIT BY ADRIAN FOX

WOEDAY

No worse, there is none. Pitched past grief
More pangs will, school, wilder wring.
Comforter, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother where is your relief?
My cries heave, herd long, huddle in
A world of sorrow, wince sing an age old
Anvil, lull release.  Fury shrieks no ling-
Erroring! Force my cry is brief.

O the mind, mountainous, sheer cliffs
No man has fathomed.  Life is cheap
For those who never hung.  Our small
Indurance doesn’t deal steep or deep.
Here creep under a comfort there
Is a whirlwind you don’t know.

All life death ends each day with Sleep.