Five Children I
Five Children I
Once helped conceive,
I watched them grow
I watched them leave,
And each one left
A wound in me,
And some left two
And some left three.
And now when I
Cry out in pain
There’s not one left
To call my name,
There’s not one left
To grieve for me
Though I wept through
Each history.
But when they grow
They may conceive,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Tongues Of Thorns
You think that I
Who broke your dream;
All that you lent
Was wasted there,
And I who spoke
In rhyme and scheme
Have lost the tongues
I tempted there.
You tear my shroud
Of wings and sighs
To leave me cold,
Unloved and lost,
While I live out
My storms and cries
In search of warmth
Beneath your dust.
But you stare long
At some surprise
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Time Knows No Passages
Nights in white cottages
By the last of the flickered firelight,
Supping sweet pottages
To the wind-wail without,
With the water on the wet wall
And your shadow on the lattices
As you cold-come to comfort
In the red candlelight.
At the grey day's frail dawning
We walk the storm ravages,
We talk at the tattered sea shore
Where the tide night-high rips,
I kissed you on a grey sky
Where the shells turn to sea-sand,
For time knows no passages
At a warm woman's lips.
5 July 1981
poem by David Lewis Paget
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For A Social Worker
What spark in you
Is this that burns
To comfort one
Whose well is pain,
That turns the nightmare
End of dreams
To thoughts of worth
From where they came?
And what the essence
Of your creed
That parts the cloud
In every stare,
You spend your lightning,
Spill each need
Then dredge and heal
Each long despair.
While at the mortgaged
End of dearth
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Late Of Days
What have you left me
Late of Days?
There’s never a smile
For my words of praise,
And not a look
Or a sigh is spent
To point the way
That the wonder went;
Where is the way
Of the ancient ways –
What have you left me
Late of Days?
What have you left me;
Tardy nights
And grim repairs
To the look-alikes,
A heart that’s troubled
And torn, and spent –
Which was the way
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Pen
‘All curses on this pen, ’
I see you think,
This dark intruder that demands
Its pint of ink;
It leaves harsh trails and seeks to
Imitate the past,
Though never moves,
But leads the eye toward the glass.
For as the trail goes out
From birth to death,
A black unbroken scrawl
To steal the breath,
It steals the art
Of conversation’s better side
While you look on
Like some poor, jilted bride,
Who has the well
(If I but had the ink) ,
And dips me well
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Spend and Grieve
Another year ended
Over and done,
What have we left of it
Now that it’s gone
- What did we lend it?
Only the tears
Of the last year’s spending,
Some of the fears
A beginning, some endings;
Raking our friends
By the sword and the pen with
No wound mending.
How at the fall of the next year, may
We garner our grievings;
Once we have plundered and purged at will
Our last year’s leavings?
Only in time
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Blake - (before birth) .
By field and by coppice
By tumbleweed and marigold,
Skipping at the butterflies
And chattering at the wood,
It’s a handful of happiness
With chubby knees and tatters all
That scurries on to Christmas
Where the old grey man stood.
With a starfish in his buttonhole
And a penny wish for the wishing well
He romps home with a puppy dog
And a flower by his ear,
While the old grey man, smiling
Says: ‘Mummy waits, in a little while -’
And I have a little whisper:
‘I love you, my dear! ’
23 November 1982
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Surge
At Granite Island’s seaward side
We sat, and watched the surging tide,
The rapid rip, the capping crest,
The stinging spray, the ragged nest;
The long slow wheel of the sea bird, moaning,
The deep-felt urge of the white sea, foaming.
You laid your head on me, and cried:
'How long, how long? ' And I replied:
'This day is ours, and for the rest….
Ah well, ' I sighed, and sought your breast;
You turned, long-lost at the deep shades forming
While I caught tears at the tip of day, dawning.
12 October 1980
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Hal - (in memory of, for Sherry)
…And where now, my Pain?
Now that you’ve gone, done a runner
On the bullet train;
One moment’s squeeze, then sigh,
No time then for the quickest
Goodbye!
All thought has gone, not one
Sweet memory of our us, or them,
To take or hold and cherish
In your urn,
Just dust! No life, no breath,
Too late to turn!
Somewhere in space…
All that you were, the Grace,
Swirling endlessly around
Some barren Star,
As if you had never been
What you are…
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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