W. S. Graham, from New Collected Poems, Faber, 2004.
I, NO MORE REAL THAN EVIL IN MY
ROOF
I, no more real than evil in my
roof
Speak at the bliss I pass I can
endure
Crowding the glen my lintel
marks,
Speak in this room this traffic
builds
About my chair and table for my
nature.
I feel the glass collide with light
and day.
Outside this lull is happening
the young
Who cough their stories in the
curving siding.
I, no more real than my
enclosure
Devise my eye to irrigate my
love
For where the slates slew down my
roof
The sky tilts back its shingle with no
sign.
From inward through my window's
needle eye
Children cartwheel from prison in
procession
And stage their fear on mulls of
rock
And build boundaries with ochre
bricks.
Thunder falls round the fieldmice and
the house.
Through all the suburbs children
trundle cries.
I, no more real than
when my hill of head
Finds evil in my dredged
up heart,
Press down my padding question on
the floor.
What things the young will take
for song or grief.
The flagstone under sky is
canopy
For other air where other thunder
falls.
Posted: Fri - September 17, 2004 at 05:51 PM