Poem
Lee Harwood
QASIDA
QASIDA
QASIDA
it’s thatthe quiet room
the window open, trees outside
“blowing” in the wind.
the colour is called green.
the sky.
the colour is called blue.
(sigh) the crickets singing
windows open. You move . . .
No, not so much a moving
but the artificiality of containment
in one skin. “No man an island” (ha-ha Buddha)
. . . lonesome, huh?
THE music, THE pictures
(go walkabout)
Small wavy lines on the horizon
somewhere over the distant horizon
the distant city (I hadn’t thought of this,
but pull it in) and you
the children are sleeping
and you’re probably sitting in the big chair
reading or sewing something
It’s quarter past nine
I find you beautiful
***
the words come slowly. No . . .
your tongue the lips moving
the words reach out –
crude symbols – the hieroglyphs
sounds, not pictures
the touching beyond this –
I touch you
in the water
as though I’m in you
that joy
and skipping in the street
the children hanging on our arms
***
You know . . . – the signals (on the horizon?)
“blocked off” the ships at night
keep moving
these clear areas beyond the clutter
that clearing
on summer nights as we lie together . . .
there are green trees in the street
yes, there is the whole existence of
our bodies lying naked together
the two skins touching
the coolness of your breasts
the touch
The setting . . .
it doesn’t really matter
We know
So much goes on around us
on the quay they’re playing music
we’ll eat and dance there,
when the wind gets cold
we’ll put our sweaters on
it’s that simple, really . . .
***
. . . the dry fields
Up on the mountain sides
white doves (of course) glide
on the air-currents hang there
someone said tumble
“the sound of words as they tumble
from men’s mouths” (or something like that)
there are these areas,
not to be filled, but . . .
it’s a bare canvas, but not empty –
all there under the surface
This is not about writing,
but the whole process
You step off the porch into the dry field
You’re there
You see, you’re there
Now, take it from there . . .
© 2003, Lee Harwood
From: Collected Poems
Publisher: Shearsman Books, Exeter
From: Collected Poems
Publisher: Shearsman Books, Exeter
Lee Harwood
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1939 - 2015)
Lee Harwood’s poetry presents a haunting pleasure to the reader – images and openings for response that cohere into uniquely graceful structures of meaning and emotion. It constructs worlds for the reader to inhabit – yet also pointing to that shared world we all inhabit.
Poems
Poems of Lee Harwood
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QASIDA
it’s thatthe quiet room
the window open, trees outside
“blowing” in the wind.
the colour is called green.
the sky.
the colour is called blue.
(sigh) the crickets singing
windows open. You move . . .
No, not so much a moving
but the artificiality of containment
in one skin. “No man an island” (ha-ha Buddha)
. . . lonesome, huh?
THE music, THE pictures
(go walkabout)
Small wavy lines on the horizon
somewhere over the distant horizon
the distant city (I hadn’t thought of this,
but pull it in) and you
the children are sleeping
and you’re probably sitting in the big chair
reading or sewing something
It’s quarter past nine
I find you beautiful
***
the words come slowly. No . . .
your tongue the lips moving
the words reach out –
crude symbols – the hieroglyphs
sounds, not pictures
the touching beyond this –
I touch you
in the water
as though I’m in you
that joy
and skipping in the street
the children hanging on our arms
***
You know . . . – the signals (on the horizon?)
“blocked off” the ships at night
keep moving
these clear areas beyond the clutter
that clearing
on summer nights as we lie together . . .
there are green trees in the street
yes, there is the whole existence of
our bodies lying naked together
the two skins touching
the coolness of your breasts
the touch
The setting . . .
it doesn’t really matter
We know
So much goes on around us
on the quay they’re playing music
we’ll eat and dance there,
when the wind gets cold
we’ll put our sweaters on
it’s that simple, really . . .
***
. . . the dry fields
Up on the mountain sides
white doves (of course) glide
on the air-currents hang there
someone said tumble
“the sound of words as they tumble
from men’s mouths” (or something like that)
there are these areas,
not to be filled, but . . .
it’s a bare canvas, but not empty –
all there under the surface
This is not about writing,
but the whole process
You step off the porch into the dry field
You’re there
You see, you’re there
Now, take it from there . . .
From: Collected Poems
QASIDA
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