Please note that the poems and essays on this site are copyright and may not be reproduced without the author's permission.

Friday, 1 February 2013

Clouds Above the Playing Fields at Sunset, Winter


Sunset at Rivière-du-Loup, Québec: photo by andrew pmk

Cold clear days with a kind of white haze
The eternity of thought against
The momentariness of sensation shows
Separation is all there is left to
Enact as the sky of evening closes
On each strained thud of a weary puppet heart
The calm that nature breathes grows large
Colors of an insect’s wing on pale clouds
Serrated and recessive barred
A vapor trail cuts across a star’s reflex
While eastward others now begin to sparkle
And as on the playing fields night conquers
The moon floats up cloaked in misty vagary
The blood aswarm with imagined lights


Anonymous said...

"The eternity of thought against
The momentariness of sensation shows"
like that image....touching beautiful words!

vazambam (Vassilis Zambaras) said...

A sunset winter sonneteer writes The calm that nature breathes grows large until we hear the heart constrict--as in The longest evening of the year.

ParentsAgainstCults said...


Just read your book The Great Naropa Wars and would like to share my story with you.

Thank you
Tibor Stern

Wooden Boy said...

And as on the playing field night conquers

That dark smothering the scene of too much ugly, infantile striving is good to think on. It's a little easier to remember wet Friday afternoons waiting the long wait to be picked.

A great poem. I love the beatific, inhuman power of time/nature here.

TC said...

Midwinter reminds that Night must fall, and conquer over all games, yes, that's surely the way of it.

(No contest, as the saying goes.)

Elmo St. Rose said...

as Yeats said...the poets have no
gifts for the politicians...and
the purest poetry like the one
on this post, the politicians would
not understand, and the poets who
aspire to be politicians of sorts
encountered a pure poet in the
Naropa poetry wars...a blast from
the past not nearly as important
as a single near perfect poem we
can read today right here

TC said...

Many thanks, Elmo.

A nod from a fellow poet is the best thing any poet could ask.