Stevie Smith
Black March
I have a friend
At the end
Of the world.
His name is a breath
Of fresh air.
He is dressed in
Grey chiffon. At least
I think it is chiffon.
It has a
Peculiar look, like smoke.
It wraps him round
It blows out of place
It conceals him
I have not seen his face.
But I have seen his eyes, they are
As pretty and bright
As raindrops on black twigs
In March, and heard him say:
I am a breath
Of fresh air for you, a change
By and by.
Black March I call him
Because of his eyes
Being like March raindrops
On black twigs.
(Such a pretty time when the sky
Behind black twigs can be seen
Stretched out in one
Uninterrupted
Cambridge blue as cold as snow.)
But this friend
Whatever new names I give him
Is an old friend. He says:
Whatever names you give me
I am
A breath of fresh air,
A change for you.
Stevie Smith
posted by Radish King at 11:57 AM
6 Comments:
Love this! Grey chiffon and raindrops on black twigs. I must read more by her. Thank you.
Xoxo
Barbara
OHHH this is great! Just sent me down the rabbit hole of Poems by Stevie. They are like - " how did you know that this would strike me in my center" kind of poems! How did she know???
She wrote a poem titled The Galloping Cat that I have always adored because of its ha ha ha ha ho and I admit I have written Ha ha in more than one poem because Stevie Smith floats around in my language retention system thank bog. ( pushed also wrote a poem titled Bog-Face! I am besotted.
I
Intend to go on being
A cat that likes to
Gallop about doing good
So
Now with my bald head I go,
Chopping the untidy flowers down, to and fro,
An’ scooping up the grass to show
Underneath
The cinder path of wrath
Ha ha ha ha, ho,
Angels aren’t the only ones who do not know
What’s what and that
Galloping about doing good
Is a full-time job
I haven't read her in a long time. Thank you!
Grey chiffon, like smoke. I love that. I love you.
where oh where, are you tonight? why did you leave me here all alone? i searched the world over and i thought i found true love. did you find another? where have you gone? oh poet full of wonder and fat wandering moons. pull up from the whirlpools wending through your island house. gather tiny stones in your hands. cut yellow into the flour. cut gold into the afternoons. and know that you are most highly holy good. worthy of all sugars and honeys and the almost imperceptible purring of dreaming cats.
Post a Comment
<< Home