ONE OF MY FAVOURITE QUOTATIONS - IN OTHER WORDS, SHOW NOT TELL
There has been so much in the media today about civilian space travel. This is an older poem circa 52 Group. Just a thought.....
Carrying the Fire*
Three point six billion people slip away.
At that moment,
the beast is best felt.
The Earth you said, looked fragile.
For a time,
all contact is severed.
The only human not in the frame
you photograph the moon’s oceans,
and our planet,
seen from the cavern
of a depthless, loveless space.
No alien world could feel this lonely;
silent in the moon’s black shadow.
An imperative journey
where staring off into space is no longer
just a matter of altered consciousness.
Unique in your alone-ness
just you and “God knows what”
And if the technology fails?
How about seventy million people
see two men die on the moon?
You didn’t have the best seat,
but it meant maybe only you return.
You knew you would leave them behind.
This was your fear.
Is that what you meant by carrying the fire?
©June Palmer
*title of book by astronaut Michael Collins, who remained behind in the command module
as Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon in 1969. He knew that “radio contact with the Earth abruptly cuts off at the instant I disappear behind the moon”
Carrying the Fire*
Three point six billion people slip away.
At that moment,
the beast is best felt.
The Earth you said, looked fragile.
For a time,
all contact is severed.
The only human not in the frame
you photograph the moon’s oceans,
and our planet,
seen from the cavern
of a depthless, loveless space.
No alien world could feel this lonely;
silent in the moon’s black shadow.
An imperative journey
where staring off into space is no longer
just a matter of altered consciousness.
Unique in your alone-ness
just you and “God knows what”
And if the technology fails?
How about seventy million people
see two men die on the moon?
You didn’t have the best seat,
but it meant maybe only you return.
You knew you would leave them behind.
This was your fear.
Is that what you meant by carrying the fire?
©June Palmer
*title of book by astronaut Michael Collins, who remained behind in the command module
as Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon in 1969. He knew that “radio contact with the Earth abruptly cuts off at the instant I disappear behind the moon”
Out of January
I hide
from that beast of cold air.
Huddled inside
winter’s drab cave.
True new year turned in deep December.
I will hardly remember
January.
I eat
but recall few flavours;
just smoky peat
of whisky in porridge.
Wine we made from summer’s flowers
drowns sunless hours
in memories.
Spring waits,
while defiant winds slam
garden gates
all through the wolfish hours.
Frost chains down the Earth, undressed
in silent submissiveness
on moony nights.
Afternoon
shadows now in retreat.
Ash moon
waxed full at Candlemass.
As one, dark birds are suddenly blathering
in Gothic tree-tops; gathering,
they wait.
The rook
carries a stick for nesting.
The brook,
muscling the ice aside,
with gurgling laugh is off and running.
The land trembles, thrumming,
like March hares.
©June Palmer April 2014
What is a poet’s web-site without poetry? Of course you can’t be too careful – web-sites count as “published” (precluding entering the poems in competitions and submissions, all perfectly understandable) so poems here are already out there in one form or another. This poem was included in my poetry collection “The Last Pictish Man” I think it is appropriate for the last day of this month. I hope it heralds the first glimmer of spring.
I hide
from that beast of cold air.
Huddled inside
winter’s drab cave.
True new year turned in deep December.
I will hardly remember
January.
I eat
but recall few flavours;
just smoky peat
of whisky in porridge.
Wine we made from summer’s flowers
drowns sunless hours
in memories.
Spring waits,
while defiant winds slam
garden gates
all through the wolfish hours.
Frost chains down the Earth, undressed
in silent submissiveness
on moony nights.
Afternoon
shadows now in retreat.
Ash moon
waxed full at Candlemass.
As one, dark birds are suddenly blathering
in Gothic tree-tops; gathering,
they wait.
The rook
carries a stick for nesting.
The brook,
muscling the ice aside,
with gurgling laugh is off and running.
The land trembles, thrumming,
like March hares.
©June Palmer April 2014
What is a poet’s web-site without poetry? Of course you can’t be too careful – web-sites count as “published” (precluding entering the poems in competitions and submissions, all perfectly understandable) so poems here are already out there in one form or another. This poem was included in my poetry collection “The Last Pictish Man” I think it is appropriate for the last day of this month. I hope it heralds the first glimmer of spring.
