Gwydion’s Loss of Llew by Ellen Kushner

When I came to the house
You were gone from the hall.
Your cup and knife-handle were cold to touch.
The leaf-red fire warmed no one’s hands.
No harpstring trembled of your passing.
The bowstring was long lax.
No one sang in the house,
And when I set my ears into the wind of the hall,
All I could hear was,
I am cold . . . I am cold . . .
It is October.

In the hills it was the same.
I know you loved them,
The crisp, clear trees,
Each with its own color,
Its own pattern twisted in the branches.
You have not seen them this year;
Though they are each as tall and straight as you,
Their numbers as great as your soul,
Yet you are not among them.

The wind tangles the net of branches
That holds it and cannot hold it;
The wind tangles the web
Of color stroked with black,
Lashing it across the sky.
My feet catch on ground-fruit,
Roots, dropped branches, brittle leaves.
If you are up there among the leaves
I cannot tell
If you have become the many
If you are the one —

Then the wind blows the net open
And all I see is sky.
Oh, Llew, be not gone from me!
I would renounce them,
Wind, leaf, and tree
If I could find you
In a place where nothing grows.

From: http://strangehorizons.com/poetry/gwydions-loss-of-llew/

Date: 1982

By: Ellen Kushner (1955- )

Night Sounds by Paul van Ostaijen

There must be white farms beyond the edge
of the blue fields by the moon
at night you hear along distant roads
horse hooves
you hear everything then silent delusion
water is suddenly oozing from distant moon fountains
—you suddenly hear water
oozing in the night—
the horses drink hurriedly
and whinny
then they are heard trotting towards the stable again.

From: https://www.poetrynook.com/poem/night-sounds

Date: 1928 (original in Dutch); 1982 (translation in English)

By: Paul van Ostaijen (1896-1928)

Translated by: James Stratton Holmes (1924-1986)

My Death by Tim Dlugos

when I no longer
feel it breathing down
my neck it’s just around
the corner (hi neighbor).

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57629/my-death

Date: 1982

By: Tim Dlugos (1950-1990)

After Arguing against the Contention That Art Must Come from Discontent by William Edgar Stafford

Whispering to each handhold, “I’ll be back,”
I go up the cliff in the dark. One place
I loosen a rock and listen a long time
till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush
of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind—
I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side
or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward. . . .

I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble
by luck into a little pocket out of
the wind and begin to beat on the stones
with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth
in silent laughter there in the dark—
“Made it again!” Oh how I love this climb!
—the whispering to stones, the drag, the weight
as your muscles crack and ease on, working
right. They are back there, discontent,
waiting to be driven forth. I pound
on the earth, riding the earth past the stars:
“Made it again! Made it again!”

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42785/after-arguing-against-the-contention-that-art-must-come-from-discontent

Date: 1982

By: William Edgar Stafford (1914-1993)

Rendezvous in a Country Churchyard by Rennie McQuilkin

I’m early. I sit on Timothy Cowles,
d 1788, ae 51, and wait.
She’ll be here soon: the sun’s not long
for this world. Meanwhile, I’m sorry
to see that Charity Howard,
depa t d in   r   th yr, is disappearing
from her stone.

Over the Hales and Hopes,
the sons and daughters of the above,
their spouses, relicts,
the maple tree is all a mumble,
might be saying prayers for the dead
except it’s caterpillars: the tree’s
half eaten, food for worms.

In it a mockingbird is at his
vireo, his bobolink, his whipperwill—
his pretty lies
as false as the lips and cheeks
that dress the bones we are.

But soft, she comes, her lantern lit,
her face a lie I willingly believe.
She has me thinking
the mockingbird’s latest
is the very song of Charity Howard
delighting with Timothy Cowles.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/volume=140&issue=3&page=32

Date: 1982

By: Rennie McQuilkin (19??- )

The Meeting Place by Christopher Pilling

(after Rubens: The Adoration of the Magi, 1634)

It was the arrival of the kings
that caught us unawares;
we’d look in on the woman in the barn,
curiosity you could call it,
something to do on a cold winter’s night;
we’d wished her well—
that was the best we could do, she was in pain,
and the next thing we knew
she was lying on the straw
—the little there was of it—-
and there was a baby in her arms.

It was, as I say, the kings
that caught us unawares…
Women have babies every other day,
not that we are there—
let’s call it a common occurrence though,
giving birth. But kings
appearing in a stable with a
‘Is this the place?’ and kneeling,
each with his gift held out towards the child!
They didn’t even notice us.
Their robes trailed on the floor,
rich, lined robes that money couldn’t buy.
What must this child be
to bring kings from distant lands
with costly incense and gold?

And what were we to make of
was it angels falling through the air,
entwined and falling as if from the rafters
to where the gaze of the kings met the child’s
—assuming the child could see?
What would the mother do with the gifts?
What would become of the child?
And we’ll never admit there are angels
or that somewhere between
one man’s eye’s and another’s
is a holy place, a space where a king could be
at one with a naked child,
at one with an astonished soldier.

From: https://talesfromthelandingbookshelves.com/tag/christopher-pilling/

Date: 1982

By: Christopher Pilling (1936- )

Spring Morning by Meng Hoaran

Spring naps, unconscious of the dawn.
Everywhere, birdsong.
Night sounds, wind, and rain.
How many petals, fallen?

From: Cheng, François (ed.), Chinese Poetic Writing, 2017, The Chinese University Press: Hong Kong, p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=_lbDCgAAQBAJ)

Date: 8^th century (original); 1982 (translation)

By: Meng Hoaran (689/691-740)

Translated by: Jerome Potter Seaton (19??- )

Leftovers by Jack Prelutsky

Thanksgiving has been over
for at least a week or two,
but we’re all still eating turkey,
turkey salad, turkey stew,

turkey puffs and turkey pudding,
turkey patties, turkey pies,
turkey bisque and turkey burgers,
turkey fritters, turkey fries.

For lunch, our mother made us
turkey slices on a stick,
there’ll be turkey tarts for supper,
all this turkey makes me sick.

For tomorrow she’s preparing
turkey dumplings stuffed with peas,
oh I never thought I’d say this —
“Mother! No more turkey… PLEASE!”

From: https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2013/12/01/leftovers-poem-by-jack-prelutsky/

Date: 1982

By: Jack Prelutsky (1940- )

I Wanna Be Yours by John Cooper Clarke

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
breathing in your dust
I wanna be your Ford Cortina
I will never rust
If you like your coffee hot
let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots
I wanna be yours

I wanna be your raincoat
for those frequent rainy days
I wanna be your dreamboat
when you want to sail away
Let me be your teddy bear
take me with you anywhere
I don’t care
I wanna be yours

I wanna be your electric meter
I will not run out
I wanna be the electric heater
you’ll get cold without
I wanna be your setting lotion
hold your hair in deep devotion
Deep as the deep Atlantic ocean
that’s how deep is my devotion.

From: http://www.cyberspike.com/clarke/yours.html

Date: 1982

By: John Cooper Clarke (1949- )

The Dream of the Rood by Anonymous

Listen! The choicest of visions I wish to tell,
which came as a dream in middle-night,
after voice-bearers lay at rest.
It seemed that I saw a most wondrous tree
born aloft, wound round by light,
brightest of beams. All was that beacon
sprinkled with gold. Gems stood
fair at earth’s corners; there likewise five
shone on the shoulder-span. All there beheld the Angel of God,
fair through predestiny. Indeed, that was no wicked one’s gallows,
but holy souls beheld it there,
men over earth, and all this great creation.
Wondrous that victory-beam – and I stained with sins,
with wounds of disgrace. I saw glory’s tree
honored with trappings, shining with joys,
decked with gold; gems had
wrapped that forest tree worthily round.
Yet through that gold I clearly perceived
old strife of wretches, when first it began
to bleed on its right side. With sorrows most troubled,
I feared that fair sight. I saw that doom-beacon
turn trappings and hews: sometimes with water wet,
drenched with blood’s going; sometimes with jewels decked.
But lying there long while, I,
troubled, beheld the Healer’s tree,
until I heard its fair voice.
Then best wood spoke these words:
“It was long since – I yet remember it –
that I was hewn at holt’s end,
moved from my stem. Strong fiends seized me there,
worked me for spectacle; cursèd ones lifted me.
On shoulders men bore me there, then fixed me on hill;
fiends enough fastened me. Then saw I mankind’s Lord
come with great courage when he would mount on me.
Then dared I not against the Lord’s word
bend or break, when I saw earth’s
fields shake. All fiends
I could have felled, but I stood fast.
The young hero stripped himself – he, God Almighty –
strong and stout-minded. He mounted high gallows,
bold before many, when he would loose mankind.
I shook when that Man clasped me. I dared, still, not bow to earth,
fall to earth’s fields, but had to stand fast.
Rood was I reared. I lifted a mighty King,
Lord of the heavens, dared not to bend.
With dark nails they drove me through: on me those sores are seen,
open malice-wounds. I dared not scathe anyone.
They mocked us both, we two together. All wet with blood I was,
poured out from that Man’s side, after ghost he gave up.
Much have I born on that hill
of fierce fate. I saw the God of hosts
harshly stretched out. Darknesses had
wound round with clouds the corpse of the Wielder,
bright radiance; a shadow went forth,
dark under heaven. All creation wept,
King’s fall lamented. Christ was on rood.
But there eager ones came from afar
to that noble one. I beheld all that.
Sore was I with sorrows distressed, yet I bent to men’s hands,
with great zeal willing. They took there Almighty God,
lifted him from that grim torment. Those warriors abandoned me
standing all blood-drenched, all wounded with arrows.
They laid there the limb-weary one, stood at his body’s head;
beheld they there heaven’s Lord, and he himself rested there,
worn from that great strife. Then they worked him an earth-house,65
men in the slayer’s sight carved it from bright stone,
set in it the Wielder of Victories. Then they sang him a sorrow-song,
sad in the eventide, when they would go again
with grief from that great Lord. He rested there, with small company.
But we there lamenting a good while
stood in our places after the warrior’s cry
went up. Corpse grew cold,
fair life-dwelling. Then someone felled us
all to the earth. That was a dreadful fate!
Deep in a pit one delved us. Yet there Lord’s thanes,
friends, learned of me,. . . . . . . . . . .
adorned me with silver and gold.
Now you may know, loved man of mine,
what I, work of baleful ones, have endured
of sore sorrows. Now has the time come
when they will honor me far and wide,
men over earth, and all this great creation,
will pray for themselves to this beacon. On me God’s son
suffered awhile. Therefore I, glorious now,
rise under heaven, and I may heal
any of those who will reverence me.
Once I became hardest of torments,
most loathly to men, before I for them,
voice-bearers, life’s right way opened.
Indeed, Glory’s Prince, Heaven’s Protector,
honored me, then, over holm-wood.
Thus he his mother, Mary herself,
Almighty God, for all men,
also has honored over all woman-kind.
Now I command you, loved man of mine,
that you this seeing tell unto men;
discover with words that it is glory’s beam
which Almighty God suffered upon
for all mankind’s manifold sins
and for the ancient ill-deeds of Adam.
Death he tasted there, yet God rose again
by his great might, a help unto men.
He then rose to heaven. Again sets out hither
into this Middle-Earth, seeking mankind
on Doomsday, the Lord himself,
Almighty God, and with him his angels,
when he will deem – he holds power of doom –
everyone here as he will have earned
for himself earlier in this brief life.
Nor may there be any unafraid
for the words that the Wielder speaks.
He asks before multitudes where that one is
who for God’s name would gladly taste
bitter death, as before he on beam did.
And they then are afraid, and few think
what they can to Christ’s question answer.
Nor need there then any be most afraid
who ere in his breast bears finest of beacons;
but through that rood shall each soul
from the earth-way enter the kingdom,
who with the Wielder thinks yet to dwell.”
I prayed then to that beam with blithe mind,
great zeal, where I alone was
with small company. My heart was
impelled on the forth-way, waited for in each
longing-while. For me now life’s hope:
that I may seek that victory-beam
alone more often than all men,
honor it well. My desire for that
is much in mind, and my hope of protection
reverts to the rood. I have not now many
strong friends on this earth; they forth hence
have departed from world’s joys, have sought themselves glory’s King;
they live now in heaven with the High-Father,
dwell still in glory, and I for myself expect
each of my days the time when the Lord’s rood,
which I here on earth formerly saw,
from this loaned life will fetch me away
and bring me then where is much bliss,
joy in the heavens, where the Lord’s folk
is seated at feast, where is bliss everlasting;
and set me then where I after may
dwell in glory, well with those saints
delights to enjoy. May he be friend to me
who here on earth earlier died
on that gallows-tree for mankind’s sins.
He loosed us and life gave,
a heavenly home. Hope was renewed
with glory and gladness to those who there burning endured.
That Son was victory-fast in that great venture,
with might and good-speed, when he with many,
vast host of souls, came to God’s kingdom,
One-Wielder Almighty: bliss to the angels
and all the saints – those who in heaven
dwelt long in glory – when their Wielder came,
Almighty God, where his homeland was.

From: http://lightspill.com/poetry/oe/rood.html

Date: ?8^th century (original); 1982 (translation)

By: Anonymous

Translated by: Jonathan A. Glenn (19??- )