it's that
the quiet room
the window open, trees outside
"blowing" in the wind.
the colour is called green.
the sky.
the colour is called blue.
(sigh) the crickets singing

windows open. You move . . .
No, not so much a moving
but the artificiality of containment
in one skin. "No man an island" (ha-ha Buddha)
. . . lonesome, huh?

THE music, THE pictures
(go walkabout)
Small wavy lines on the horizon

somewhere over the distant horizon
the distant city (I hadn't thought of this,
but pull it in) and you

the children are sleeping
and you're probably sitting in the big chair
reading or sewing something
It's quarter past nine
I find you beautiful

***

the words come slowly. No . . .
your tongue the lips moving
the words reach out -
crude symbols - the hieroglyphs
sounds, not pictures

the touching beyond this -
I touch you

in the water
as though I'm in you

that joy
and skipping in the street
the children hanging on our arms

***

You know . . . - the signals (on the horizon?)
"blocked off" the ships at night
keep moving

these clear areas beyond the clutter
that clearing

on summer nights as we lie together . . .

there are green trees in the street
yes, there is the whole existence of
our bodies lying naked together
the two skins touching
the coolness of your breasts
the touch

The setting . . .
it doesn't really matter
We know
So much goes on around us

on the quay they're playing music
we'll eat and dance there,
when the wind gets cold
we'll put our sweaters on
it's that simple, really . . .

***

. . . the dry fields
Up on the mountain sides
white doves (of course) glide
on the air-currents hang there

someone said tumble
"the sound of words as they tumble
from men's mouths" (or something like that)

there are these areas,
not to be filled, but . . .

it's a bare canvas, but not empty -
all there under the surface

This is not about writing,
but the whole process
You step off the porch into the dry field
You're there
You see, you're there
Now, take it from there . . .


About Lee Harwood


Lee Harwood was born in 1939 and grew up in Surrey. He has spent the majority of the past 35 years living in Brighton. In a writing career that began in the early 1960s he has published over 20 volumes of poetry and prose, as well as translations of Tristan Tzara. His work has been widely anthologised and he is regarded as one of the finest poets working in England today. Read more...

Poet of the day

Tryambak Bapuji Thombre was an Indian Marathi poet, whose pen name was Balkavi, also spelled as Baalkavi or Baal-kavi. Poems of Thombre deal with his love of nature and are marked by exuberant language.

Some of his poems are very "dark" while most of them depict nature in a beautiful...
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Poem of the day


Bold-faced ranger
(Perfect stranger)
Meets two well-behaved young ladies
He's attractive,
Young and active -
Each a little bit afraid is.
Youth advances,
At his glances
To their danger they awaken;
They repel him
As they tell him
He...
Read more...