Rg Gregory
The bouncing spider
schnyder schnyder The bouncing spider Had a song Wound up inside her She’d had it taped On a silken spool This was the song She sang as a rule O little fly Come be
Symptom
begin at a chapter you have read before With new words and a new hand turning The pages where the print vibrates and the white Paper runs in a stream of many colours Stand
Jerusalem and redcurrants
my jerusalem My newfoundland Juicy as redcurrants With their sweet tang taste My desire My holy requirement Caught in a cleft of mountain Ever clambered towards My yearning My place of the blood-red fruit
The plane and the blackbird
a cold bright sun Two days to christmas A first-quarter moon At a good vantage-point A small white coffin Driven slowly uphill From the cemetery gate To the minimal grave Fifty people attending Unexpected
On why it is necessary to talk kindly to frogs
i met a frog in my garden today Lurking under a stone – it said There used to be a pond here I know i said i had to dig it up Pity said
Grandeur
loneliness is a state The lonely cannot reach It carries a grandeur That doesn’t fit into Bed-sitters or rejected Ideas – it’s the label stuck On the bottle after The tables have gone
Owls and pussy cats and seven-year – old boys
owls and pussy cats can make up their minds To sail out to sea and even get married But they don’t have parents or other such binds Whose one job in life is to
The feminine touch
she came on a fine cool morning The last of a course i was attending As we crowded the pavement Waiting to be let in – hello she said Put her arms around me
Thread
the sky is shattered Its debris Clutters the world’s streets Where the light came from Is a question Charred beyond recognition Heads hang out of walls Limbs unattached Rigid in their will to crawl
Reflections of caernarvon
i I shall die yearning A hand Reaching out to A face that isn’t there A face Seeking a hand A stone Leaving its mountain- Wall in a wind Anxious to be a bird
Joy-notes
when the time comes Yield To the forces outside you Images simply Of your inner compulsions When the time comes Invite Your enemies inside you Inversions simply Of your face on the world When
From imperfect Eden
(1) And off to scott’s (the dockers’ restaurant) Burly men packed in round solid tables But what the helle (drowned in hellespont) This place for me was rich in its own fables I’ll be
Symbolically concerned
dodona oak (the tree of life) sheds leaves Nutritious-which feeds blood and mind today There’s not a jot (from which the present cleaves) Can be dispensed with – all life’s array From first to
In search of milk and paradise
heeley (sheffield) autumn 1988 Dodging the broken bottles Dog-shit the pavement spew I wheel my young son matthew Through the heeley streets Shop to shop this early Morning (short of milk) Unsettled day –
(filtered)
a nearby field provides the plants Sometimes with a wild profusion (organisation seems a long way off) It takes an eye used to ink or paint To confront such a rich confusion And draw