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poems beginning with P by Jehanne Markham

Poems are catalogued alphabetically. Please select a specific section by clicking on the the alphabet above.

Click on title to see poems:
WASPS
WATER AND STONES
WHEN YOU HAVE FOUND THE PLACE
WHITE DAYS
WHITE FLOWERS



WASPS

I have picked the dead wasps from your hair
For nothing more than
It pleased me
To please you
Only to feel
The wasps have come alive
In my swollen hand.

from The Captain's Death Soul 1974

WATER AND STONES

There is common driftwood on every stream,
antlers, tree bones
torn from another life

though nothing is more beautiful than the patterns of water
silking round stones

the water that circles like a question mark over my heart
is playing the same tune over and over

like the pluking of cold iron
desire is an old dog lying low under the yew tree
bound and unbound

while the stream trickles
clear, clear over Sussex clay
and when I was a child I understood

how water sang in rhythms
anonymously

over stones nestled into mud
breathing out grass roots and
yellow butterflies.

from Thirty Poems Rough Winds 2004

WHEN YOU HAVE FOUND THE PLACE

When you have found the place
Where soft flowers
Suck in their colour
And a girl with apple knees
Caresses the smile in her arm
Tell me
And I'll find it.

When you have found the time
When the house is empty
The morning does not move
And the curtains bleed white light
Tell me
And I'll find it.

When you have found the place
Where bumble bees
Stagger from the throats of flowers
And a man waits
Burning the grass he whistles through
With his eyes
Tell me

from The Captain's Death Soul 1974

WHITE DAYS

Condensation in silvery drops
Behind the black matted trees

A carpet of frost on the roof
And the bird-bath has a plate of ice

White days lie ahead
And the white page

If the Thames would freeze over again
As it did in 1683

We might skate from Blackfriars to Hammersmith
Burn fires on the ice

Feel the forgiving flutter of snow
On our upturned faces

WHITE FLOWERS

The froth of them
embossed over the garden wall:
organdie puffs
waiting to be marked
by the sticky feet of bees
or the butterfly's soft needle.

The past is not always innocent
though the swan drifts over the lake
and snow piles up against the gate,
ice blue to indigo
till the pillow is wet through.

One day white lilies arrive at my door,
they smell of sultry night-clothes,
sugary nooks and crannies.
They come in stiff cellophane packets,
they come to console me
but it's too late for that.

2015

AUCTION ROOMS

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AUGUST

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