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Gillian Clarke

Collected Poems

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  • ravinduцитирует8 лет назад
    Journey

    As far as I am concerned
    We are driving into oblivion.
    On either side there is nothing,
    And beyond your driving
    Shaft of light it is black.
    You are a miner digging
    For a future, a mineral
    Relationship in the dark.
    I can hear the darkness drip
    From the other world where people
    Might be sleeping, might be alive.
    Certainly there are white
    Gates with churns waiting
    For morning, their cream standing.
    Once we saw an old table
    Standing square on the grass verge.
    Our lamps swept it clean, shook
    The crumbs into the hedge and left it.
    A tractor too, beside a load
    Of logs, bringing from a deeper
    Dark a damp whiff of the fungoid
    Sterility of the conifers.
    Complacently I sit, swathed
    In sleepiness. A door shuts
    At the end of a dark corridor.
    Ahead not a cat’s eye winks
    To deceive us with its green
    Invitation. As you hurl us
    Into the black contracting
    Chasm, I submit like a blind
    And folded baby, being born.
  • abhiramцитирует8 лет назад
    Fierce confrontation, the tight
    Red rope of love which we bot
  • abhiramцитирует8 лет назад
    Tightening about my life,
  • rosie2000robinsonцитирует9 лет назад
    As far as I am concerned
    We are driving into oblivion.
    On either side there is nothing,
    And beyond your driving
    Shaft of light it is black.
    You are a miner digging
    For a future, a mineral
    Relationship in the dark.
    I can hear the darkness drip
    From the other world where people
    Might be sleeping, might be alive.
    Certainly there are white
    Gates with churns waiting
    For morning, their cream standing.
    Once we saw an old table
    Standing square on the grass verge.
    Our lamps swept it clean, shook
    The crumbs into the hedge and left it.
    A tractor too, beside a load
    Of logs, bringing from a deeper
    Dark a damp whiff of the fungoid
    Sterility of the conifers.
    Complacently I sit, swathed
    In sleepiness. A door shuts
    At the end of a dark corridor.
    Ahead not a cat’s eye winks
    To deceive us with its green
    Invitation. As you hurl us
    Into the black contracting
    Chasm, I submit like a blind
    And folded baby, being born.
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