No more - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

No more

Instinctively the hearts knew

before the minds could speak

the nonchalant searching

through the sea

of beating souls

was matched

*

there will be

no more

            waiting.

(1996)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012 

untitled - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

Because when

All is

Said and done

There is nothing to be

Added to

Relieve your

Deeds – you are a ...

(1996)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012 

Phenomenal Woman - Poetry by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

By Maya Angelou (from her collection: The Complete Collected Poems)

Woman Alive - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

Woman Alive

There are diamonds

in her heart

along with dreams

you dare not start ...

There is moonlight

in her walk

there is passion

in her talk ...

There are rainbows

in her eyes

there are dances

in her thighs ...

This woman has

excitement in her smiles.

(1995)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012

Miracle - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

Miracle

A moment passes

a minute flees

the hour slips away

the day is gone

the month retreated

time moves without delay.

The world is ageing

before our eyes

there’s nothing we can do.

As this miracle takes place

no one notices the growing     d   i   s   t   a   n   c   e

between us two.

(1995)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012

untitled - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

Poetry – untitled

powerful emotion conquers knowledge

you are my truth

terrestrial heart loses its edge

Naomi for Ruth

planets fear the literary drought

desire ignites

erratic heart thumps and shouts

awaiting invite

established reason vanquished

without effort

lifelong sense is banished

to live in yourt

reaction to your presence

in mind or sight

drowning with concupiscence

desired outright

(1998)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012 

The World’s Song - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

The World’s Song

The world is my guide, I’ll always want more.

It makes me run around in busy streets: it leads me up and down

crowded motorways. It unsettles my soul and  leads me in the ways

of gross wickedness and greed for its own purposes.

Even though I travel through the most dangerous areas of the cities I am

not afraid because I am never alone, my gun and my drugs keep me

safe and content.

The world is open to me, I can sit with those who hate me because

of my worldly power; I have so many benefits and opportunities I

can’t count them all.

Without a doubt I will be dogged by fear and uncertainty all the days

of my life but I will stay in the way of the world for ever.

(1997)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012 

The other woman - Poetry by Marjorie H Morgan

The other woman

The other woman

was so loved

she had a special place

away from those boring friends

away from those public places

away from those ordinary events

The other woman

was so loved

she had a special time

much later

later than was promised

later than was convenient

later than was kind

The other woman

was so unloved

while waiting again

she took a special look

over

all that was missing

all that was ordinary

all that was promised

The other woman

so loved herself

that she found a special place

in the open

with ordinary events that were convenient

with kind friends in public places

with missing promises that ended waiting

(1996)

© Marjorie H Morgan 2012 

Let us pray for those who try - Poetry by Ken Walsh

We so often pray

For people in trouble.

Let us pray also

For the loving,

The joyful,

The kind and

The courageous.

Ken Walsh (From his collection – Sometimes I Weep)

Funeral Blues - Poetry by W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
    doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W H Auden

John Hannah recites Funeral Blues in Four Weddings and a Funeral

The Negro Mother - Poetry by Langston Hughes

The Negro Mother

Children, I come back today 
To tell you a story of the long dark way 
That I had to climb, that I had to know 
In order that the race might live and grow. 
Look at my face -- dark as the night -- 
Yet shining like the sun with love's true light. 
I am the dark girl who crossed the red sea 
Carrying in my body the seed of the free. 
I am the woman who worked in the field 
Bringing the cotton and the corn to yield. 
I am the one who labored as a slave, 
Beaten and mistreated for the work that I gave -- 
Children sold away from me, I'm husband sold, too. 
No safety , no love, no respect was I due.

Three hundred years in the deepest South: 
But God put a song and a prayer in my mouth . 
God put a dream like steel in my soul. 
Now, through my children, I'm reaching the goal. 

Now, through my children, young and free, 
I realized the blessing deed to me. 
I couldn't read then. I couldn't write. 
I had nothing, back there in the night. 
Sometimes, the valley was filled with tears, 
But I kept trudging on through the lonely years. 
Sometimes, the road was hot with the sun, 
But I had to keep on till my work was done: 
I had to keep on! No stopping for me -- 
I was the seed of the coming Free. 
I nourished the dream that nothing could smother 
Deep in my breast -- the Negro mother. 
I had only hope then , but now through you, 
Dark ones of today, my dreams must come true: 
All you dark children in the world out there, 
Remember my sweat, my pain, my despair. 
Remember my years, heavy with sorrow -- 
And make of those years a torch for tomorrow. 
Make of my pass a road to the light 
Out of the darkness, the ignorance, the night. 
Lift high my banner out of the dust. 
Stand like free men supporting my trust. 
Believe in the right, let none push you back. 
Remember the whip and the slaver's track. 
Remember how the strong in struggle and strife 
Still bar you the way, and deny you life -- 
But march ever forward, breaking down bars. 
Look ever upward at the sun and the stars. 
Oh, my dark children, may my dreams and my prayers 
Impel you forever up the great stairs -- 
For I will be with you till no white brother 
Dares keep down the children of the Negro Mother. 

(Langston Hughes)

Mother to Son - Poetry by Langston Hughes

I have this poem on my study wall. It is a reminder to keep on going.  On the anniversary of Langston Hughes’ birthday I share this poem with you. Mother to Son Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So, boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps. 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now— For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair. Langston Hughes (from his collection - Selected Poems)

A Possible Prayer on New Year's Day - Poetry by Frances Bellerby

To the Light now invisible

Word now inaudible

Truth now unknowable

Pray for the appearance of shadows

Before this New Year’s Night.

For shadow trees on the cold null meadows,

Proof of the sun’s light.

And pray for each shadow to be delicate and precise

            as its tree.

Now and in memory.

Frances Bellerby (1899 -1975)

Taken from The Twelve Poems of Christmas, Volume Three, Selected and Introduced by Carol Ann Duffy

Carol - Poetry by George Mackay Brown

In the first darkness, a star bled.

The war of cloud and summit, other wounds.

Hills cupped their hands

And the rain shone over knuckles of rock and dropped to the

            sources.

Precious that well-hoard.

The priests gathered in secret jars

Lustrations for the passionate and the dead.

You were blessed, young tree

With one apple.

Far on you must bear five godwounds, prefigured and red.

The deer runs on, runs on, swiftly runs on

Before bird and arrow,

Then bends, obedient to the arrow, its branching head.

A hunter’s hand has broken the wild grape

To stain and seed.

And the hunter’s hill opened with a green sound,

A stalk of corn,

And the blacksmith took from his forge a powerful blade.

Now this, a cry in our atom-and-planet night –

A child’s wailing.

A child’s cry at the door of the House-of-Bread.

George Mackay Brown (1921 – 1996)

Taken from The Twelve Poems of Christmas, Volume Three, Selected and Introduced by Carol Ann Duffy

11/11/11 - Remember

11/11/11 - Remember

Man’s desire collides

between

life and duty,

mind explosions, fire!

Silence.

Upright backs

forever straight

under earth’s

pressure.

No peace found.

Bravery flows red.

Love and hatred

unite in the sod ...

forever.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2011 

Remembering ... my brother

© Marjorie H Morgan 2011

For M.G.R.

Remembering ... my brother

My brother was a soldier, he went to war.

He fought proudly for Queen and country.

My brother was a soldier.

His life was a war.

I remember

I used to pretend that

my brother was not a soldier

so I could sleep

at night.

Wars devastate

families

every day as

they bite and tear at hearts and

spit them out on barren ground.

War is hatred wrapped in metal.

War is a monster under the bed.

War is a thief ... of lives, dreams and a future.

I remember when my brother was a soldier.

The heavy

airmail letters bore whispers of hopes

as they thudded on the doormat.

The brief visits home held 

 unspoken dreams and fears distant

at the sharp point of the invisible bayonet -

all family eyes saw the pain

as he shone his

boots to remove the past.

There is no peace

when your brother is a soldier,

there is no peace

when familial familiarity shrivels

in the face of  unspoken horrors.

War diminishes lives.

Yet, I remember

that my brother was a soldier,

proud and strong,

loyal and true.

I remember

that my brother

always came back,

sometimes without his shadow ...

other brothers did not return.

Today, I remember

all the soldiers

who are my other brothers.

The brothers who are like moths

drawn to the flame of war

that scorches their souls,

that steals their eternal youth.

I remember.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2011 

Corniche - Poetry by Les Murray

I work all day and hardly drink at all.

I can reach down and feel if I’m depressed.
I adore the Creator because I made myself
and a few times a week a wire jags in my chest.

The first time, I’d been coming apart all year,
weeping, incoherent; cigars had given me up;
any road round a cliff edge I’d whimper along in low gear
then: cardiac horror. Masking my pulse’s calm lub-dup.

It was the victim-sickness. Adrenalin howling in my head,
the black dog was my brain. Come to drown me in my breath
was energy’s black hole, depression, compère of the predawn show
when, returned from a pee, you stew and welter in your death.

The rogue space rock is on course to snuff your world,
sure. But go acute, and its oncoming fills your day.
The brave die but once? I could go a hundred times a week,
clinging to my pulse with the world’s edge inches away.

Laugh, who never shrank around wizened genitals there
or killed themselves to stop dying. The blow that never falls
batters you stupid. Only gradually do
you notice a slight scorn in you for what appals.

A self inside self, cool as conscience, one to be erased
in your final night, of faxed, still knows beneath
all the mute grand opera and uncaused effect –
that death which can be imagined is not true death.

The crunch is illusion. There’s still no outside world
but you start to see. You’re like one enthralled by bad art -
yet for a real onset, what cover! You gibber to Casualty,
are checked, scorned, calmed. There’s nothing wrong with your heart.

The terror of death is not afraid of death.
Fear, pure, is intransitive. A Hindenburg of vast rage
rots, though, above your life. See it, and you feel flogged
but like an addict you sniffle aboard, to your cage,

because you will cling to this beast as it gnaws you,
for the crystal in its kidneys, the elixir in its wings,
till your darlings are the police of an immense fatigue.
I came to the world unrehearsed but I’ve learned some things.

When you curl, stuffed, in the pot at rainbow’s end
It is life roaring and racing and nothing you can do.
Were you really God you could have lived all the lives

that now decay into misery and cripple you.

A for adrenalin, the original A-bomb, fuel
and punishment of aspiration, the Enlightenment’s air-burst.

Back when God made me, I had no script. It was better.
For all the death, we also die unrehearsed.

Les Murray (from his collection - Killing the Black Dog))

Final Curve - Poetry by Langston Hughes

When you turn the corner

And you run into yourself

Then you know that you have turned

All the corners that are left.

Langston Hughes (From his collection - Life is Fine)

To respond - Poetry by Ken Walsh

To visibly or invisibly acknowledge
Someone or their actions,
To transmit to them
That you know -

Then they knowing

That you know,

Respond

And it grows.

Ken Walsh (from his collection - Sometimes I Weep)

The Message - poetry by Harold Rhenisch

From the city 

men lead camels

into the shifting sand.

They are watched for hours

from the highest towers

by men in red robes,

until they vanish, tiny,

into the mirroring wall of heat- 

then the watchers cry out

with a long, drawn-out wail of joy

sung deep in the throat.

The travellers have hawks on their wrists

and messages in their pockets.

They are on their way 

to the king.

The message they bring

is a tiny silver box

that when opened in daylight,

as the sand whips in 

off the streets,

contains the sun, and when shut

contains instantaneously

its absence,

which was there before it.

It is the simplest thing in the world,

but also the most inscrutable.

The men let the hawks go free;

the hawks return with empty claws;

while the king is unaware

that a message is on its way

from the world.

Harold Rhenisch (from his collection -The Blue Mouth of Morning)