The House was Quiet and the World was Calm

The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The reader became the book; and summer nightg


Was like the conscious being of the book.

The house was quiet and the world was calm.


The words were spoken is if there was no book,

Except that the reader leaned above the page,


Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be

The scholar to whom the book was true, to whom


The summer night is like a perfection of thought.

The house was quiet because it had to be.


The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:

The access of perfection to the page.


And the world was calm.  The truth in a calm world,

In which there is no other meaning, itself

Is the reader leaning late and reading there.


Wallace Stevens



Men Made Out of Words

What would we be without the sexual myth,

The human reverie or poem of death?


Castratos of moon-mash – Life consists

Of propositions about life.  The human


Reverie is a solitude in which

We compose these propositions, torn by dreams,


By the terrible incantation of defeats

And by the fear that defeats and dreams are one.


The whole race is a poet that writes down

The eccentric propositions of its fate.


Wallace Stevens


Now we are like that flat cone of sand

in the garden of the Silver Pavilion in Kyoto

designed to appear only in moonlight.


Do you want me to mourn?

Do you want me to wear black?


Or like moonlight on whitest sand

to use your dark, to gleam, to shimmer?


I gleam. I mourn.



Tess Gallagher


Here I work in the hollow of God’s hand

with Time bent round into my reach. I touch

the circle of the earth, I throw and catch

the sun and moon by turns into my mind.

I sense the length of it from end to end,

I sway me gently in my flesh and each

point in the process changes as I watch;

the flowers come, the rain follows the wind.


And all I ask is this – and you can see

how far the soul, when it goes under flesh,

is not a soul, is small and creaturish –

that every day the sun comes silently

to set my hands to work and that the moon

turns and returns to meet me when it’s done.


Alice Oswald

The Incense Contest


Are you awake, my sweet barbarian?

Why, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost!

Are you so shocked to see a lady smoke?

I owe this habit to the Prince, my husband.

That interests you? But that was years ago,

When high-born women told the time by crickets

and generals burned perfumes in their helmets

The night before they rode their troops to battle.

Among the rich it was considered proper

for gentlemen to keep some trace of court

about them in the sweat and shit and smoke.

Among our set those days, in fact, the game

of ‘Guess the Incense’ was the latest rage.

Played, like all our games, in grace and earnest,

By intricate directions, for high stakes.


And crispest winter evenings where the best

because the air is cleanest in the cold.

Without music, badinage, or flowers,

with all attention focused on the flame,

we’d kneel and sniff, and sigh in recognition,

or we’d pretend, to save a reputation,

or gamble on assent when someone twigged

‘Why this is Plum Tree Blossom mixed with balsam.’

On such a night the Empress proposed

an incense contest for the Heian ladies.


We worked for weeks refining subtleties

of clove and cinnamon and sandalwood,

selecting lacquers for the bowls and burners

and stiff kimonos for our serving girls.

Imagine generals in midnight camps

nudging sticks and pebbles across maps;

just so we worried over strategies

until the evening of the second snow.


That night we drank the Empress’s sake.

The Prince, my husband, danced and spoke

a poem written by my grandfather:


Shadows on your screens;

            a document inked in script

            I will yet master.


A very famous poem.  You smile, my lord,

but I come from a literary line.


The alcove, I recall, was full of courtiers

Brushing snow from silken hunting vests

and ladies hushing them.  A fan was flicked

to signify the contest had commenced.


First my cousin knelt above the brazier

and blent two scents together on the fire.

Eagles in Winter Light, I think

and Village of the Pines with bergamot.

At first I found her effort elegant,

warm and old and calm But moments later,

barbed and pungent with an old resentment.

The Empress nodded, and glancing towards my husband

misquoted one of my grandfather’s lines.


Next my sister burnt an amber resin

suggesting pavements after summer rain.

We all felt something which we couldn’t name

but which we all agreed was sad and cold

and distant, like some half-remembered grief

from girlhood, or a herb like marjoram.

Once more her Majesty addressed the Prince,

‘You seem to have remarkably broad taste.’

And looked at me with something worse than pity.

I knew I’d lost. And when it was my turn

to add my clichéd fragrance to the fire

a door slid open deep within my head…


But how can I describe what happened then?

Except to say the blind must dream. They smell

and touch and taste and hear; and you, my dear,

can dream – are dreaming even now, perhaps –

while all about you swirls a hidden world

where memories contend like hungry ghosts.

I didn’t smell my incense in the brazier:

I smelled the forest and I smelled the horses,

the dung in stables, women giving birth,

the rotting teeth of footmen from the provinces,

the coppery reek of blood, the clogged latrines,

the foetid corpses of the foreign priests

my husband crucified on Gyotoku.

I smelled so many women on the Prince

I smelled the Prince on every woman there.


Are you awake?  for if it please you, lord,

to hold that candle just beneath my pipe

until the black tar glows…

There, I smoke

to keep those smells at bay.  It isn’t free,

my dear barbarian, so don’t forget

to demonstrate that generosity

for which your noble race is celebrated.

The crickets signal dawn. Time to rise

and face the sun and leave me to my dream.


Michael Donaghy

Drunken Bellarmie

         After Renee So


In this spirit of affliction I beheld two tings,

that shame is also revelry, and a body

is a spillage, or an addiction.  I do not know

if this thing belongs to me, tipped-up set of weights

that promises, but never delivers, equilibrium.

I cannot make manifest this collection of feelings,

but look at me: I want to be loved for the wrong reasons

I mean I want to be hated for the right reasons.

I have been lonely. Every time I say the word ‘I’

I am ashamed.  When I say ‘I want’ I am triply

ashamed.  I want my shame to be a kind of proof

that deduces the world, and that’s the worst

shame of all.  I have been theatrical, entropic,

parting with myself for company.  This heartsore

will not stop weeping and look, the sky is sick,

knitted too tightly; my face is up your sleeve

like a card trick.  DON’T LOVE ME: I am guilty,

fatalistic and sticky round the mouth like a dirty baby.

I am a shitting, leaking, bloody clump of cells

raw, murky and fluorescent, you couldn’t take it.


Emily Berry


When I was

being haunted

it was as though

you had come

back from the

dead but would

not visit me

I learnt that

haunting was

what happened

when I let y

want escape

violent beams

of coloured light

at first it seemed

like a miracle

the first stain

that bloodstain

the little bell

the quiet night

no shortage of

flowers I let a

long pause elapse

then we dragged

the body outside


Emily Berry


The Road to the Northern Light

It weeps tar from tender parts like frogskin. Thin, mobile

muscles squirm under your soles as it bears you across the

Hill Dyke on  a current of cool air, the bed of an invisible

river.  It has heath and tormentil, not dandelion but catsear.

It has a creep over a precipice; it has sorrel, parched and tiny.

It carries you above the white and lilac sea; it switchbacks,

and turn you before the sun like a sacrifice.


Jen Hadfield

(From Byssus)

Each flower is a little night

Each flower is a little night

pretending to draw near


But where its scent rises

I cannot hope to enter

which is why it bothers me

so much and why I sit so long

before this closed door


Each colour, each incarnation

begins where the eyes stop


This world is merely the tip

of an unseen conflagration


Philippe Jacottet

Trans. Derek Mahon