Gwen Harwood: Все стихи поэта | Poetree

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Daybreak

Daybreak

The snails brush silver. Critic crow

points his unpleasant beak, and lances.

Resumes his treetop, darts below

his acid-bright, corrosive glances.

In the hushed corridors of sleep

Professor Eisenbart plots treason.

Caretaker mind prepares to sweep

the dusty offices of reason.

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The Wound

The Wound

The tenth day, and they give

my mirror back. Who knows

how to drink pain, and live?

I look, and the glass shows

the truth, fine as a hair,

of the scalpel's wounding care.

A round reproach to all

that's warped, uncertain, clouded,

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Critics Nightwatch

Critics Nightwatch

Once more he tried, before he slept,

to rule his ranks of words. They broke

from his planned choir, lolled, slouched and kept

their tone, their pitch, their meaning crude;

huddled in cliches; when pursued

turned with mock elegance to croak

his rival's tunes. They would not sing.

The scene that nagged his sleep away

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The Glass Jar

The Glass Jar

To Vivian Smith

A child one summer's evening soaked

a glass jar in the reeling sun

hoping to keep, when day was done

and all the sun's disciples cloaked

in dream and darkness from his passion fled,

this host, this pulse of light beside his bed.

Wrapped in a scarf his monstrance stood

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'Dichterliebe'

'Dichterliebe'

So hungry-sensitive that he

craves day and night the pap of praise,

he'll ease his gripes or fingerpaint

in heartsblood on a public page.

The ordinary world must be

altered to circumvent his rage.

He'll tell, with stylish Angst of course,

the inmost secrets of our bed.

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Barn Owl

Barn Owl

Daybreak: the household slept.

I rose, blessed by the sun.

A horny fiend, I crept

out with my father's gun.

Let him dream of a child

obedient, angel-mind-

old no-sayer, robbed of power

by sleep. I knew my prize

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"Thought is Surrounded by a Halo"

"Thought is Surrounded by a Halo"

Show me the order of the world,

the hard-edge light of this-is-so

prior to all experience

and common to both world and thought,

no model, but the truth itself.

Language is not a perfect game,

and if it were, how could we play?

The world's more than the sum of things

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Triste, Triste

Triste, Triste

In the space between love and sleep

when heart mourns in its prison

eyes against shoulder keep

their blood-black curtains tight.

Body rolls back like a stone, and risen

spirit walks to Easter light;

away from its tomb of bone,

away from the guardian tents

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Estuary

Estuary

To Rex Hobcroft

Wind crosshatches shallow water.

Paddocks rest in the sea's arm.

Swamphens race through spiky grass.

A wire fence leans, a crazy stave

with sticks for barlines, wind for song.

Over use, interweaving light

with air and substance, ride the gulls.

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