From the monthly archives:
We climbed through a broken window,
walked through every room.
Out of business for years,
the mattresses held only
rainwater, and one
woman’s black shoe. Downstairs
spiders had wrapped up
the crystal chandelier.
A cracked cup lay in the sink.
But we were fourteen,
and no way dust could hide
the expected glamour from us,
or teach us anything.
We whispered, we imagined.
It would be years before
we’d learn how effortlessly
sin blooms, then softens,
like any bed of flowers.
– Mary Oliver
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head as she rode by.
– Robert Graves
ten milk bottles standing in the hall
ten milk bottles up against the wall
next door neighbour thinks we’re dead
hasnt heard a sound he said
doesn’t know weve been in bed
the ten whole days since we were wed
noone knows and noone sees
we lovers doing as we please
but people stop and point at these
ten milk bottles a-turning into cheese
ten milk bottles standing day and night
ten different thicknesses and
different shades of white
persistent carolsingers without a note to utter
silent carolsingers a-turning into butter
now she’s run out of passion
and theres not much left in me
so maybe we’ll get up
and make a cup of tea
then people can stop wondering
what theyre waiting for
those ten milk bottles a-queuing at our door
those ten milk bottles a-queuing at our door
– Roger McGough
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,
What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,
A well of water in a country dry,
Or anything that’s honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world bright. Your open heart,
Simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea.
Not beautiful or rare in every part.
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.
- Edwin Muir
