often on these bare slopes

clothed in a kind of mourning

by stone waves which apparently still ripple

i sit by night, and see the distant stars

high

in

the

clear

blue

sky

stars

candesce

down

upon

this

melancholy

waste

and

i

see

them

mirrored

by

the

distant

sea

till

all

the

universe

sparkles

through

this

limpid

emptiness

giacomo leopardi  the broom

page xi of the introduction

i quite like this translation by j. g. nichols , i have modified it slightly, it conveys something the others don't

giacomo's view    on poetry

often on these bare slopes

clothed in a kind of mourning

by stone waves which apparently still ripple

i sit by night, and see the distant stars

high

in

the

clear

blue

sky

stars

candesce

down

upon

this

melancholy

waste

and

i

see

them

mirrored

by

the

distant

sea

till

all

the

universe

sparkles

through

this

limpid

emptiness

giacomo leopardi  the broom

page xi of the introduction

i quite like this translation by j. g. nichols , i have modified it slightly, it conveys something the others don't

  Two Word Poem.

The toad sat on a red stool
it was a toadstool.

The rain tied a bow
in the cloud's hair
it was a rainbow.

Which witch put sand
in my sandwich?

I stood upon the bridge
then I understood.

I sat on the ledge and
thought about what I know.
It was knowledge.

      THE SEA

the mist smudges out
Kapiti Island

the hills curve and rise
like loaves of bread

the sun sprinkles glitter
on the sea

the wind is writing
what it knows
in lines along the water

 AUTUMN 2

the leaves are bleeding

before they fall

to the ground

they make no sound

                The Frost

Silver Jack Frost and glistening Jill Snow go up the hill.

The colour is lost the trees are still.

The above poems are by Laura Ranger

thousands of years ago

    thousands of years later

          sun rising in the east

              setting in the west

clouds gathering

    rain pouring

          wind howling

clouds opening

    sun shining

          warming

flowers blooming

    withering

          fruit ripening

              dropping

water freezing

    snow flakes dancing

          water melting

              frogs croaking

a child catches a firefly

    lighting up the open fist

  "look everybody look!"

(Our grandchildren visited this summer, delighting in catching frogs, and, once, a firefly.)

Toni Packer

On the road was a stone

was a stone on the road

was a stone

on the road was a stone.

I will never forget seeing that

in my life of weariness

I will never forget that on the road

was a stone

was a stone on the road

in the middle of the road was a stone.

      Carlos Drummond de Andrade

    Autumn Evening in My Mountain Abode

Fresh rain has fallen on the vacant mountains;

Autumn's evening approaches.

The bright moon is shining through the pines,

The clear stream flowing over the stones.

Bamboos rustle, as washing maids return.

Lotuses stir: a fishing boat descends.

Let spring's fragrance vanish, as it will;

May the wanderer tarry, as he pleases.

          Wang Wei

The river of time in its rush

Carries away all human cares

And drowns in the abyss of oblivion

Peoples, kingdoms and kings.

And if something remains

Through the sounds of lyre and trumpet,

Then it will be devoured by eternity's maw

And will not escape the common fate.

Gavrila Derzhavin

three  poems  by janet frame

The End

At the end

I have to move my sight up or down.

The path stops here.

Up is heaven, down is ocean

or, more simply, sky and sea rivalling

in welcome, crying Fly (or Drown) in me.

I have always found it hard to resist an invitation

especially when I have come to a dead end

a

dead

end.

The trees that grow along cliff-faces,

having suffered much from weather, put out thorns

taste of salt

ignore leaf-perm and polish:

hags under matted white hair

parcels of salt with the string tangled;

underneath

thumping the earth with their rebellious root-foot

trying to knock up

peace

out of her deep sleep.

I suppose, here, at the end, if I put out a path upon the air

I could walk on it, continue my life;

a plastic carpet, tight-rope style

but I’ve nothing beyond the end to hitch it to,

I can’t see into the mist around the ocean;

I shall have to change to a bird or a fish.

I can’t camp here at the end.

I wouldn’t survive

unless returning to a mythical time

I became a tree

toothless with my eyes full of salt spray;

rooted, protesting on the edge of this cliff

– Let me stay!

______________

    The Happy Prince

In the children’s record of the Happy Prince,

before each gold flake is peeled from the Prince’s body,

the voice orders, Turn the Page, Turn the Page,

supposing that children do not know when to turn,

and may live at one line for many years,

sliding and bouncing boisterously along the words,

breaking the closed letters for a warm place to sleep.

Turn the Page, Turn the Page.

By the time the Happy Prince has lost his eyes,

and his melted heart is given to the poor,

and his body taken from the market-place and burned,

there is no need to order, Turn the Page,

for the children have grown up, and know when to turn,

and knowing when, will never again know where.

______________

    Eater of Crayfish

Commonplace, divine, bald, at home,

licking day-long breath from the walls of his air-cell

he will eat the crayfish green-garnished in its blush of dying,

burned, like love, in and beyond the salt element.

He will taste the embarrassment of dying,

tear off the livid armour hiding the bloodless flesh,

destroy the cable laid along the sea-bed

communicating bloom of excrement.

From the time he is born he will need to eat this crayfish,

his left hand love, his right hand hate, he will take

larger and larger meals of nightmare till his life accumulates

eyes, eyes, that walk on twigs under the sea.

poems  from    the north ship   by  philip  larkin

nursery tale

All I remember is

The horseman, the moonlit hedges,

The hoofbeats shut suddenly in the yard,

The hand finding the door unbarred:

And I recall the room where he was brought,

Hung black and candlelit; a sort

Of meal laid out in mockery; for though

His place was set, there was no more

Than one unpolished pewter dish, that bore

The battered carcase of a carrion crow.

So every journey that I make

Leads me, as in the story he was led,

To some new ambush, to some fresh mistake:

So every journey I begin foretells

A weariness of daybreak, spread

With carrion kisses, carrion farewells.

I put my mouth close to running water

flow north, flow south, it will not matter

it is not love you will find

I told the wind

it took away my words

it is not love you will find, only the bright-tongued birds

only a moon with no home

It is not love you will find

you have no limbs crying for stillness, you have no mind

trembling with seraphim, you have no death to come

I put my mouth close to running water :  flow north, flow south, it will not matter, it is not love you will find

I told the wind :  it took away my words :  it is not love you will find, only the bright-tongued birds, only a moon with no home

It is not love you will find :  you have no limbs crying for stillness, you have no mind: trembling with seraphim, you have no death to come

dawn

To wake, and hear a cock

Out of the distance crying,

To pull the curtains back

And see the clouds flying  —

How strange it is

For the heart to be loveless, and as cold as these

a few    poems   from his book of    collected poems