Epilogue
"Why can't you say what you mean straight out in prose?"
Well, say it yourself: then say "It's that, but more,
Or less perhaps, or not that way, or not
That after all." The meaning of a song
Might be an undernote; this tree might mean
That leaf as much as trunk, branch, other leaves.
And does one know till one begins? And let's
Look over hedges far as eyesight lets us,
Since road's not, surely, road, but road and hedge
And feet and sky and smell of hawthorn, horse-dung.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Day Dream
One day people will touch and talk perhaps
easily,
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as
sunlight,
And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted,
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers,
Unfurl, uncurl like seaweed returned to the sea,
And work will be simple and swift
as a seagull flying,
And play will be casual and quiet
as a seagull settling,
And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder
or care or notice,
And people will smile without reason,
Even in winter, even in the rain.
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Nursery Rhyme For A Twenty-First Birthday
You cannot see the walls that divide your hand
From his or hers or mine when you think you touch it.
You cannot see the walls because they are glass,
And glass is nothing until you try to pass it.
Beat on it if you like, but not too hard,
For glass will break you even while you break it.
Shout, and the sound will be broken and driven backwards,
For glass, though clear as water, is deaf as granite.
This fraudulent inhibition is cunning: wise men
Content themselves with breathing patterns on it.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Night Piece
Climb, claim your shelf-room, far
Packed from inquisitive moon
And cold contagious stars.
Lean out, but look no longer,
No further, than to stir
Night with extended finger.
Now fill the box with light,
Flood full the shining block,
Masonry against night.
Let window, curtain, blind
Soft-sieve and sift and shred
The impertinence of sound.
Now draw the silence up,
A blanket round your ears;
Lay darkness close and sure,
Inverted cup to cup
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poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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One Day
People will touch and talk perhaps easily,
And loving be natural as breathing,
And warm as sunlight;
And people will untie themselves,
As string is unknotted,
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread
Their fingers;
Unfurl, uncurl, like seaweed returned
To the sea.
And work will be simple and swift
Like a seagull flying;
And play will be casual and quiet
Like a seagull sitting.
And the clocks will stop, and no - one
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poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Cinema Screen
Light's patterns freeze:
Frost on our faces.
Light's pollen sifts
Through the lids of our eyes ...
Light sinks and rusts
In water; is broken
By glass ... rests
On deserted dust.
Light lies like torn
Paper in corners:
A rock-pool's pledge
Of the sea's return.
Light, wrenched at the edges
By wind, looks down
At itself in wrinkled
Mirrors from bridges.
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poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Epitaph On A Disturber Of His Times
We expected the violin's finger on the upturned nerve;
Its importunate cry, too laxly curved:
And you drew us an oboe-outline, clean and acute;
Unadorned statement, accurately carved.
We expected the screen, the background for reverie
Which cloudforms usefully weave:
And you built the immaculate, adamant, blue-green steel
Arch of a balanced wave.
We expected a pool with flowers to diffuse and break
The child-round face of the mirrored moon:
And you blazed a rock-path, begun near the sun, to be finished
By the trained and intrepid feet of men.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Flight Of Stairs
Stairs fly as straight as hawks;
Or else in spirals, curve out of curve, pausing
At a ledge to poise their wings before relaunching.
Stairs sway at the height of their flight
Like a melody in Tristan;
Or swoop to the ground with glad spread of their feathers
Before they close them.
They curiously investigate
The shells of buildings,
A hollow core,
Shell in a shell.
Useless to produce their path to infinity
Or turn it to a moral symbol,
For their flight is ambiguous, upwards or downwards as you please;
Their fountain is frozen,
Their concertina is silent.
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poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Cats
Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes
Less than themselves; will not be pinned
To rules or routes for journeys; counter
Attack with non-resistance; twist
Enticing through the curving fingers
And leave an angered empty fist.
They wait obsequious as darkness
Quick to retire, quick to return;
Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
With reservations; will not learn
To answer to their names; are seldom
Truly owned till shot or skinned.
Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
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poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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Earthfast
Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space
With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze
Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing
With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
poem by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
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