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’.
