Sunday, 7 December 2008

The Unicorn

My lady has a unicorn,
That lives on dreams alone;
She brings him roses with silver thorns,
He sleeps on the courtyard stones.
He drinks of glassy waters,
And walks her pathless lawns,
Waiting for the sun to set,
Then waiting for the dawn.

My lady has an orchard
Where the apples never fall -
The sun through leaves is cool and green
And shines on one and all.
The season never changes;
The weather is always fine,
The birds that sing see everything,
And always sing on time.

My lady has a unicorn
She feeds on only words,
On tales of shipwrecked mariners
And chivalry with swords.
He listens, waits for her to call;
She sings so prettily.
Then he grinds his head on the garden walls
And weeps most bitterly.

David Ruaune

"All our bleeding yesterdays,"
of those who dwell on days before,
that's what I hear my father say;
but what's that clawing at the door?

It's all our bleeding yesterdays,
come crawling back for more.

David Ruaune

Switchboard of the Holy Ghost

We are trying to connect you.

Please hold, during the silence.

The person you are calling,

Knows you are waiting.

The person you are calling,

Knows you are waiting.

The person you are calling,

Knows you are waiting, Knows you are calling, Knows you are waiting.

Please hold on
During the silence.

David Ruaune

An Offering
for B, as ever.

What do I bring?
What am I offering?

Fear of myself and my foolishness-
Of saying too little,
Or saying too much;
Clamming or opening up.
Of my childishness or my mannishness;
My heart-aching silliness.
Of thinking I’m clever and then pain
Rearing unexpected yet again
Reeling in traffic and rain.

I make here
An offering of my fear.

David Ruaune

The Society of Friends

Fare-thee-weal, apparat-chicks and dicks,
received wisdom, professional attitude;
No more your fucked-up false-comradely
confident insolence - (fit only
for the carrion-field of a nightmare-history, akcherly) -
You shall not be heard.

True lovers, Bring me the new wine -
We'll mull it by the fire
At our table in the tavern
At the crossroads of this our earth;

With our hearts like open poppies,
Proud of the soul's wound, we shall proceed to build
The Once and Future Society of Friends.

David Ruaune


Saturday, 19 July 2008

Two Angels

Two angels come to visit me;
Their voices weave each passing hour -
One says that all there is, is love;
One says that all there is, is power.

Their branches twine the star-pierced sky,
Their roots the granite rock below;
And which the fiercer devil is,
I guess I’ll never know.

David Ruaune


Monday, 28 May 2007

The Language-Tree of the Feral Child

I broke the surface, ranged antennae bright,
Limbs of quicksilver eagerly outstretched,
And waited. Just be patient; they will come.
Stay ready to interpret. Surface to depth.
All combinations possible.

This is the time, by rights, they should be here,
Marching the night in rank – I dread I’m deaf
Or broken. I will try harder. I can hear.

I scour for sense, drill deep, crack meaning’s bone,
Fine-comb for syntax strands of howling noise
From dogs and such, or storms from void to void.

I failed my sole task, through no fault of my own,
Waiting for you, as my bright awakening morn
Darkened to baffled horror.

David Ruaune


Revenge Of The Rose

Who first made of me emblem, doomed me thus;
Early bloom, suitors pluck impatiently
Stems like helpless arms, raised up, aghast,
Give no protection. The gift of my little death
Works wonders, means he means it, seals the deal.
False hearts or true, all take too easily –
Blossoms; too open a face, that sets aflame;
A heart come apart, wrecked rupture, inside out.
Thorn cannot save me, yet if rude hands, too sure,
A gash I’ll give – you too can bloom, vain boy.
May he forsake her. May she break his heart.
I’m red as lust, as blushes, red as blood,
As rage; I am the rose and thorn of love –
And whether I die for true love or pretend,
I’ll be your pitiless God, your crimson end.

David Ruaune


from Search For My Pudding

You ask me what I mean
by saying I don’t know the word
for what comes after the main meal,
I ask you, what would you say
if you had three tongues in your mouth
and the first one called it pudding
and the second one called it dessert
and the third one doesn’t care what you call it as long as it gets to taste the bloody thing.
Sweet is an alternative
but sounds like your nanna avoiding saying pudding
in a cafe in Rhyll.
Afters is simply a shamefaced euphemism.
One could simply say
“Have we got anything else?”
but that makes you sound like
some arrogant wife-beater.

If I say dessert,
I feel like a Volvo driver.

I’ll try to spit it out
(If that’s the right phrase
when you’re talking about food...)

лПהח כװף ئعك лфש صغى

(mamis thureni puddin?)*

Really I couldn’t care less if anyone thought
I was muck for saying pudding it’s
just a trifle
annoying if they think you’re
saying pudding to prove a point
pretending to work down a pit, or

*A phrase I have often overheard. The usual reply is “Not until you have eaten the main course, my child.”

Sunday, 27 May 2007

Brokenbrow and Havenhand

“Brokenbrow and Havenhand”
Brass-plated, fixed upon the door
One phrase the two, yet seldom seen
Together now, for many a year.

Brokenbrow, the elder partner,
All must pass; He will not smile -
Furrowed in subtlety, each year harsher,
Sharp as a paper-cut, never still

Beneath the tomes of precedent
Old Brokenbrow would pace the floor
Whilst outside in the cold and snow,
Havenhand failed to help the poor.

But who’d have thought – look to the bar!
Arguing council, church, and mill,
Drunken in subtleties, loud yet obscure,
Avid and stubborn, wrangling still.

David Ruaune.


Friday, 25 May 2007

Favourite poems by other people

I will be adding some comments on the poems below soon, but for now simply include them as favourites.

anyone lived in a pretty how town

by e e cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)
they said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

They Flee From Me

by Sir Thomas Wyatt

They fle from me, that sometyme did me seke
With naked fote, stalking in my chambre.
I have seen theirn gentill, tame, and meke,
That nowe are wyld, and do not remembre
That sometyme they put theimself in daunger
To take bred at my hand; and nowe they raunge
Besely seking with a continuell chaunge.

Thancked be fortune, it hath ben othrewise
Twenty tymes better; but ons, in speciall,
In thyn arraye, after a pleasaunt gyse,
When her lose gowne from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her armes long and small,
Therewith all swetely did me kysse,
And softely saide: "Dere hert, howe like you this?"

It was no dreme: I lay brode waking.
But all is torned, thorough my gentilnes,
Into a straunge fasshion of forsaking;
And I have leve to goo of her goodness,
And she also to use new fangilnes:
But syns that I so kyndely am served,
I would fain knowe what she hath deserved.

Into My Heart an Air that Kills

by A. E. Housman

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Pied Beauty

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise Him.

Fairy Tale

by Miroslav Holub

He built himself a house,
his foundations,
his stones,
his walls,
his roof overhead,
his chimney and smoke,
his view from the window.

He made himself a garden,
his fence,
his thyme,
his earthworm,
his evening dew.

He cut out his bit of sky above.

And he wrapped the garden in the sky
and the house in the garden
and packed the lot in a handkerchief
and went off
lone as an arctic fox
through the cold
into the world.