Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Diamonds on the Soul

DIAMONDS ON THE SOUL OF SLEEP (Pantoum)  Wendy Webb


Play, dulcimer, upon my mind and bring
the strings of Paradise in fire and ice,
then Xanadu will rise from pleasure’s ring
and words, as drunken honey-dew, suffice.

The strings of Paradise, in fire and ice,
come trembling as a pool beside a shore
and words, as drunken honey-dew, suffice
to mirror dark or light for evermore.

Come, trembling as a pool beside a shore:
a thousand circling gulls splash – break the spell,
to mirror dark or light for evermore.
One seagull on a rock-cold living hell.

A thousand circling gulls – splash – break the spell,
in phantom fragments lovely forms dissolve.
One seagull on a rock-cold living hell,
no Kubla Khan can firm to dull resolve.

In phantom fragments, lovely forms dissolve:
wings of a dove, a cottage by a lake.
No Kubla Khan can firm to dull resolve
where passing mirrors flow, form surfing wake.

Wings of a dove – a cottage by a lake.
Rise, mirage Grasmere’s cut and polished prose,
where passing mirrors flow, form surfing wake:
wet diamonds dancing jewels on dreams composed.

Rise, mirage, Grasmere’s cut and polished prose
- sleep’s harp-soft moments when bright angels wing.
Wet diamonds dancing jewels on dreams composed…
lost choruses deep-sleeping poets sing.

Play, dulcimer, upon my mind and bring
sleep’s harp-soft moments when bright angels wing.
Then Xanadu will rise from pleasure’s ring:
lost choruses deep-sleeping poets sing.


Sunday, 6 February 2011

Coasting

COASTING  Wendy Webb


Such sky
such air
such light
such ploughed-up mud
all wrenched across
this county,
double-dug.
Spread as manure
or stubble, such
a spread of canvas
fit for chrome,
for Constable’s fine head.
Such Haywain vistas
such a lack of land,
such prodding crows
such seagulls
flocked like sheep.
Such neat, such
ordered mess
of mud imploding
on the car.
Such cruising splashes
mudscreens Turneresque
as smearing earth.
Such Monet light, such
air such sky
such oohs and aahs,
such absent Haystack
stretched across
bare wood.
Such Temeraire, such tug
such barren brush
so rare so gone
as air imploding
light on land

and not a crag
and not a mount
in sight
nor shag of autumn
shadowing inland
nor starlings drifting
gardens, pecking
crumbs of riotous
shades of black.
Not paper shades
nor pastel wash
nor soaked nor
stretched nor taped.
No oohs no aahs
no echoing ravines.
No shades of anything
but air but light
but land but
such bare earth.
Impressions such
as Sunrise
such as sky,
such lily pads
of Monet clods.
Such double-dig
where air and light
and sky breasts
oohs and aahs
of nothing;
not a mountain
imploding
on dull sod.