Poems i think you should read

Bed

 

I dream myself

A cool white bed. It is nothing

Like the bed I sleep in now,

(which is hardly a bed,

Being a futon),

But a huge bed, with

A smooth wood frame.

The headboard

And the footboard curve back, away

From each other.

 

The bed sits in the middle of a room,

A big room,

With sun-streaked wood floors, and

Bare white walls, and open windows.

There is nothing else in the room,

But through the window you can hear

A sound, which could be

Waves breaking on the shore, could be

Winds whistling through the pines.

 

The dream

Isn’t about the bed. Its

Not about sleeping, either, nor

About having sex in the bed (although

That could be imagined) – its really about

Simplicity, about lack of clutter, about

Perfection.

 

  

The bed

 

I dream myself

A cool white bed. Its frame

Is made of smooth,

Light wood. Pale

Silk sheets stretch taut

Against the mattress.

 

The headboard and footboard

Arch back, sweeping

Away from each other.

 

The bed

Rests on a sun-streaked floor.

Through a window, you can hear a sound,

Which could be

Waves breaking

Over rocks.

 

Or wind,

Or the low rush of traffic

On a city street.

 

There is nothing else.

 

It is just the room,

The bed,

The sound,

And the air – a tinge

Of cold – and all of it

Shimmering, shimmering.

 

A poem by Linda Jarkesy – first draft on the left and final on the right. Which do you prefer?

 

 

  

TEA – Carol Ann Duffy

 

I like pouring your tea, lifting

The heavy pot, tipping it up,

So the fragrant liquid steams in your china cup.

 

Or when you're away, or at work,

I like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,

As you sip, of the faint half- smile of your lips.

 

I like the questions – sugar? – milk? –

And the answers I don’t know by heart, yet,

For I see your soul in your eyes, and I forget.

 

Jasmine, Gunpowder, Assam, Earl Grey, Ceylon,

I love tea’s names. Which tea would you like? I say,

But its any tea, for you, please, any time of day,

 

As the woman harvest the slopes,

For the sweetest leaves, on Mount Wu-Yi,

And I am your lover, smitten, straining your tea.

 

He is more than a Hero – Sappho ( 610 -580 B.C.)

 

He is more than a hero

 

He is a god in my eyes –

The man who is allowed

To sit beside you – he

 

Who listens intimately

To the sweet murmur of

Your voice, the enticing

 

Laughter that makes my own

Heart beat fast. If I meet

You suddenly, I cant

 

Speak – my tongue is broken;

A thin flame runs under

My skin; seeing nothing,

 

Hearing only my own ears

Drumming, I drip with sweat:

Trembling shakes my body

 

And I turn paler than

Dry grass. At such times

Death isn’t far from me.

 

 

 

 

These poems I found in the book ‘poetry for dummies’ and ‘ the mature students guide to writing’.