Poems by Ann D. Stevenson

I heard your voice,
I saw you grin,
I tasted your lips,
I breathed you in,
I held you close,
I touched your skin.

My sixth sense said,
"I’ll marry him."

'For better for worse'
I did not know
what worse was going to be,
that I would lose
my own identity.

He too is lost
in muddled mists
of time and mind.

Oh, that the fog would clear
so he could see
the lover that I used to be
before
I became the carer.

It was not the sight of a night sky
bejewelled with numerous stars,
nor the whisperings from the waves.

It was the look in his eyes,
taste of salt on his lips,
when I received that first kiss.

It was not the rippled moonlit path
beguiling us into the sea,
nor the glow of a smouldering fire.

It was the warmth of his arms
and his talk that charmed
it was that - that stayed with me.

(The book I've been reading rests on my knee,
you sleep.)                        (Wendy Cope)

I am trying to read, I cannot sleep,
remembering.
I want to hold you close, when you keep
remembering.
You sleep now in the lamp's soft glow.

You woke me earlier shouting 'no',
remembering
that bomb going off, a lethal mine,
remembering
splattered bodies, shattered minds.

Men blown to bits before your eyes,
remembering
that was how your best friend died,
remembering
how you fought so hard for peace.

Some of us will never cease
remembering.

No, no, no - I feel really low
I don't want to go to the ball.

My hair is a mess - I can't find a dress
I don't want to go to the ball.

OK then I'll come - it won't be much fun
but to please you I'll go to the ball.

The food's not too bad - I don't feel so sad
that I gave in and came to the ball.

And there's an old chum - who thinks it's quite fun
to meet up with friends at the ball.

She wants me to meet - an old friend called Pete
who watched me arrive at the ball.

I look hard at Pete - my heart jumps a beat
I'm  so glad I came to the ball.

Pete's really divine - one day he'll be mine
I hope you'll all come to the ball.

In Spring she blossoms forth,
no concerns of what to wear,
festooned in flowered finery.

Dressed in green all summer long,
looked upon as cool and calm,
she casts others in the shade.

Come the fall she has a ball
in multicoloured frippery,
she happily strips, bit by bit.

Her limbs may glisten in the cold,
bejeweled in frosted crystals,
or shining bright in softest white.

She stands proud when naked,
no shame in an aging frame,
clothed or unclothed beauty reigns.

Rubbish in my head can smoulder on
creating smokey fumes which fog my brain
and when I think the murky clouds have gone
a few small sparks will bring them back again.

Time to step outside and make a real fire
a myriad sparkles as it bursts alight
glowing growing flames stretch ever higher
smoke spirals as it wafts off out of sight.

There's warmth as all that rubbish burns away
transforming itself into treasured ash
which serves to nurture earth another day
and helps to make the flowers bloom afresh.

A bonfire of those thoughts from long ago
can make me smile and feel an inner glow.