david myatt - some rejected poems

7/25/2019 David Myatt - Some Rejected Poems

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DW Myatt: Some Rejected Poems

Editorial Note: In the Introduction to his published slim volume of poetry - One Exquisite Silence(ISBN 978-1484179932), later republished under the title Relict(ISBN 978-1495448386) - DavidMyatt wrote that:

"My poetry was composed between the years 1971-2012, and is of varying quality.Having undertaken the onerous task of re-reading those poems that I still havecopies of, there are in my fallible view only around a dozen that I consider maypossibly be good enough to be read by others. This collection contains these fewpoems, and most are autobiographical in nature."

I include here those of his rejected poems which in my view are indeed "good enough to be readby others".

JR Wright

NYC2014

Apple Blossom in May

There is a reality about SpringWhen grass grows green with the sun:Days lengthen bringing the warmthThat reassures and one is pleasedTo run a hand where wind moves

And blossoms have been blown:

Every hour is uniqueWhen rain stops.

In the town - three hillsAnd a valley to the left -Music slithers from a shopWhile people rush,Gathering.

A drill strikes stone

Where youths gatherSneering at people who pass.

There is a pleasure about SpringWhen free grass grows in the sun,

A slowness when wind rushes tree:NearbyThe curlew and larkWhere sun glints


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Upon rain sodden earth:

How are you today, Mr Hughes?Oh not so bad, you know -Better for the sun.

Aye, will dry the groundSo we can seed.

Over the fields -White clouds making facesIn the sun

(c.1983)

Hermit Tent

It is so cold ice has formedIn my boots whileFrost-bitten snow crunchesWhen you walk the shortDistance to waterGathering ice in a pail

Ochre, the morning sun lies shroudedBy mist, casting no heat

As the birds do not castThe imprint of their feetUpon snow:

The rose cutting jutsAbove white thereWhere last week I buriedThat car-killed cat and where a leafUnfurls inIntimation of Spring

Over the tree, a crowCalling:Nothing answers

Awkwardly I amble through the cold

While ice forms on my face:

SlowlyA crake awakesTo life

(1975)


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Was There Ever Such A Bliss As This

Here, sea, Skylark and such a breeze as rushes reeds

Where sandy beach meetsTo meld with skyAnd a tumbling cumuli of cloudBriefly cool our Sun.

I am no one, while ageing memory flows:

For was there ever such a bliss as thisWhile the short night lasted

And we touched kissed meshed ourselves togetherTo sweat, sweating, humid,Fearing so many times to fully open our eyesLest it all really was

A dream

But Dawn arrived as it then arrived bringing with its lightLoose limbs and such a reminder

As would could should didMake us late that day for work.

So, here: a tiredness of ageBrightened by such a June as thisWhen sandy beach meetsTo meld with sky

And that tumbling cumuli of cloudBriefly cools a Sun

(2009)

One Moment, Moving

A slight breezeTo curl the waves, a little,Where this now calmer SeaStretches

Below blueAnd some annoying fliesBite the hand that writes.

For it is warmFor end-SeptemberKeeping Summer the way I keepMy loves, remembering:Stretched and taut with such a slender filament


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Connecting them to LifeAs the fragile body hazing my horizonNow so slendly hangs between dark Space

And the blue-green-brownOf Earth.

I am only this, here -One moment merging to another

For empathy overcomes:No cold Thought to spoil by abstractionsThe way the factory bolt despoils the lamb.So much wasted so oftenI have no measure to measure-outThe blameFor I am falling, fallenHaving failed myself so often:No stories, text, to capture such a lossOf both empathy and love.

For I am only this, here - Oystercatchers catchingWhere sea greets sand

And the waning Moon still glows, a little,As on that night

When the distant lighthouse pulsed in darknessAnd the sea sounds under stars sent their callsDown deep down into greeny-blackness

As if some unknown entity of the deepsWas here, there,Listening, waiting, lurkingUnprofaned still by the hubrisWe mis-name Discovery.

For it is not right to give namesTo some things

Now, I am this, here - where only stiffnessNumbness thirst hunger ageRemind one momentTo move

(2010)

The Returning

All seasons transcendSince each day differsThrough its cloud and its sun.


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In the wood, gold spreadsSlowlyLike the slow death it is

As every soft colour is returned.Only pasture remains greenBelow mistWhile brown earth is brokenBy plough:

Sufficiency is shelter itselfAnd the once reluctant farmer nodsAs he turns with his bent backWhere sun restsBetween its hill and his home.It will be gone, soon, this sunLostWhile stars stare down the skyWhere for fifty yearsHis house has stoodStone grey among muddy sheep-torn grass.

There was a horse, then,To plough the steep slopeOf his hill: a different wayWhen even the villageFifteen furlongs westWas wary of all change.

But shelter is sufficiency itselfHe knows

As he walks the short pathTo his home.There will be fire,

A son's warm wifeTo welcome this leathery skin.

He is old, he knows,Worn like the oak, and his pathWhich three years of bloody handsTore from Her earth

And which each year She renews.

All rain can be smelt

In the wood, wind spinsSlowly, like Earth.

There is a mist, a minglingWhile the fallen man waits among leavesLike Her kestrelFor death.

Every wind is his breath.

(c.1984)


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A Warm Day One Spring

In the hillsWhere heat haze is scatteredBy windWisdom sits like the shepherdWaiting;No words sufficeWhile bleached brackenScratches beneath blue.

Nearby, heather sproutsWhere silty shales chewedBy frostCrumble slowly like life:

There is no hasteWhere eighty years of windHave twisted the small Douglas treeLike this Peregrine twistsItself in flight:

Somewhere a death

While on the road belowTwo cars scurryNoiseless like lice:Soon they will rust

Just as I will be bleached bonesAnd dust.

Little enduresLike this rock

(c.1984)

Travelling

A hot day in Summer as I walkSlowlyBut fastly sweatingDown this roadWhile speeding traffic passes

As speeding traffic does:


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The drivers seem unaware or carelessOf my slowness

And grimly swerve to almostTouch meHere where a town - ten miles distant - creepsOver a river to spread across

A narrow greening plain.

There is food in the town,A path's beginning to take me upwardAnd turning through a forestTo the sheep-sided hillsBeyond.

Slowly, my world passes -I cannot comprehend the rush

And sit in the hot sun on a low wallHaving passing through the breathless bodyOf this town.

Even my water is warmAnd suspicious faces watch meAs their owners in gardens surround themselvesWith sound:There seems a rushing in the seeping loudMusic, a barrierTo keep my slow moving solitary travelling world

Away -I smile, but my beard, my worn clothes -Perhaps my eyes - mark me.

A few hoursAnd it is good to be alone again

Among the peace of hillsWhere my walking slowness seems to frameEach slowly passing world:

Above - cloudsTo herald some future rain.

(1975)

Remembering

HauntingAs the cry of the owlWithin the frost of nightWhen I walked to this streamWith no moon:

I saw your face as I waited for dreams,Tired by my waiting:

You the ghost walking the path


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Of my life.

Sun came, slowly, bringingA little mist around the stream,A spreading calm to make me stretchAnd walk like an old manBent by cold and doubt.

Here in the valley no trees existTo greet in wakeing this Winter's sun -There is only frost-bruised heather

And fern,No songOf birds, onlyThe timbre of stream.

Slowly, cold-raw handsTransform a little warmthFrom my dream:How many more nights shall I needTo rememberUntil I cannot forget

Again?

(1987)

cc David Myatt 2012

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david myatt - some rejected poems

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